I 


na 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 


But  in  the  mirror  he  came  towards  her,  and  she 
turned  round  to  meet  him  shyly  (page  70) 


THE 
WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 


A    NOVEL, 


BY 

RINA  RAMSAY 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 

J.  VAUGHN  McFALL 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 
1911 


Copyright  1911 
BY  DODD,  MEAD  &  Co. 

Published  March,  1911 


TO   THE    MEMORY    OF 

MY  FATHER 


2137345 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

But  in  the  mirror  he  came  towards  her, 
and  she  turned  round  to  meet  him 
shyly  (page  70) Frontispiece 

"Tell  me  who  you  are,"  she  panted  hys- 
terically   Facing  page  26 

"Did  you  tell  him  you  are  not  my  wife?" 

he  said "          "162 

"Go  on;  go  on.     I'm  mad  with  curiosity! 

I  am  dying  to  hear  it  all"    ...         "         "     258 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 


CHAPTER  I 

SHE  lay  without  moving.  It  seemed  as  if  there 
were  nothing  of  her  but  the  long  black  hair 
covering  the  pillow.  Looking  closer  you  saw 
that  her  hands  were  clenched  tight  against  her 
breast  as  if  to  keep  her  heart  quiet. 

The  door  in  the  partition  rattled  but  stayed 
shut,  although  bursts  of  noise  shook  it  from 
time  to  time.  In  the  bar  M'Kune's  Tragedy 
Company  was  assembled.  The  night  wind  had 
blown  them  together  like  drifted  leaves.  And 
the  stranded  actors  were  all  beside  themselves 
with  joy  because  the  midnight  train  was  to 
carry  them  out  of  this  nightmare  town.  They 
had  made  up  their  fares  at  last. 

How  fast  the  minutes  went.  It  must  be 
nearly  train  time.  And  surely  there  was  a  vast 
thing  pulsing,  pulsing  like  an  engine  far  away 
in  the  night.  .  .  .  She  could  hear  the  hub- 
bub of  voices  but  not  the  dread  of  silence.  Was 
it  quite  impossible  to  rise  up  and  struggle  to 
them  and  reach  a  human  face?  .  .  .  Sud- 
denly she  took  a  panting  breath,  short  like  a 
sob,  still  gazing. 


2  THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

The  door  had  opened  at  last  and  a  woman 
looked  in  hastily  and,  flinging  a  word  over  her 
shoulder  to  the  rest,  stepped  forward,  shutting 
out  the  brief  streak  of  light  and  the  voices  in 
the  bar.  Then  she  paused,  irresolute.  It  was 
so  dim  in  here,  the  atmosphere  was  so  anxious 
.  .  .  and  nothing  stirring  .  .  .  just  a 
glimmer  of  wild  black  hair. 

"You  poor  little  thing  I"  she  said. 

Her  voice  was  warm  with  the  cheap  kindness 
of  a  nature  tuned  to  play  with  emotion  but  in- 
capable of  feeling  it  from  within.  Her  sym- 
pathy smacked  of  the  stage,  but  as  far  as  it 
went  was  ready  to  proffer  easy  help. 

"Like  the  flight  out  of  Egypt,  isn't  it?"  she 
said.  "It's  a  shame  to  leave  you  behind.  If 
M'Kune  would  hear  reason  and  any  of  us  had 
a  cent  to  spare  I'd  make  a  bundle  of  you  and 
carry  you  on  to  the  train  myself.  But  it  won't 
run  to  it.  I  asked  him.  We're  nothing  but 
ranting  beggars.  .  .  .  You'd  better  write 
to  your  friends." 

The  girl  on  the  bed  laughed. 

So  much  of  despair  betrayed  itself  in  that 
tragic  note  that  the  woman  was  startled.  She 
came  a  little  nearer. 

"You  don't  mean  it's  as  bad  as  that?"  she 
said,  lower.  "All  dead?  Well,  I  might  have 
known  it.  They  wouldn't  have  let  a  young 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN  3 

thing  like  you  fling  about  in  the  world  with  us. 
But  you'll  be  all  right;  you'll  rub  along  some- 
how. We  all  do.  .  .  .  And  that  man  who 
was  once  a  doctor — " 

But  at  her  words  a  quick  terror  came  to 
drive  out  the  girl's  submission  to  despair.  She 
threw  out  her  hands,  clutching  at  the  other 
woman's  dress. 

"What?"  said  she,  comprehending.  "Then 
the  brute's  charity  and  promising  to  M'Kune 
— Oh,  Lord,  what  a  horrible  place  it  is — !" 

' '  Don 't  go ! "  The  girl 's  yoice  was  a  choking 
cry. 

The  woman  swung  round  and  listened.  Were 
the  rest  starting  already?  Her  fine  eyes  dark- 
ened. She  was  wrapped  up  for  the  night 
journey  in  a  faded  crimson  cloak,  her  usual 
wear  in  tragedy,  alike  as  empress  and  vil- 
lainess.  Its  dull  glow  warmed  a  beauty  that 
was,  like  her  soul,  not  quite  real.  Perhaps  she 
was  repenting  the  hasty  impulse  that  had 
brought  her  in.  But  she  could  not  pull  herself 
loose  from  that  piteous  hold. 

The  younger  one  looked  up  beseechingly  in 
her  face.  Her  spirit  failed  her;  she  hardly 
knew  what  an  impracticable  thing  she  was  ask- 
ing, how  uselessly  she  was  clinging,  in  her  hor- 
ror of  friendlessness. 

"I'm  so  frightened    .    .    .    I'm  so  fright- 


4  THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

ened  .  .  ."  she  whispered,  panting  because 
the  effort  hurt  her ;  her  lips  were  pale,  and  her 
forehead  was  damp  with  pain. 

Suddenly  the  woman  clapped  her  hands. 

"I've  got  it!"  she  said.  Her  face  cleared, 
and  she  began  to  laugh  like  one  whose  mind 
was  rid  of  a  burden.  Twisting  a  ring  off  her 
finger,  she  caught  the  little  desperate  hand  still 
clutching  at  her  skirt,  and  thrust  the  ring  on. 

"There!"  she  said.    " Change  with  me." 

"I  can't  understand,"  said  the  girl  faintly. 
The  other  woman  burst  into  vehement  explana- 
tion. 

"It's  Providence!"  she  said.  "Never  tell 
me — !  I'm  used  to  this  life  with  its  ups  and 
downs,  and  its  glitter  of  luck  ahead.  It's  in 
my  bones;  the  restlessness,  and  all  that.  I 
couldn't  give  it  up.  I  wouldn't.  But  you — ! 
You  didn't  guess  there  was  a  lawyer  tracking 
me,  did  you? — that  I'm  a  widow? — that  I'm 
wanted  to  go  and  live  in  England  with  his 
mother.  Perhaps  she'd  have  to  pay  somebody 
if  I  hadn't  a  sense  of  duty.  .  .  .  Me  pick- 
ing up  stitches  in  her  knitting,  yawning  in  a 
parlour  with  a  parrot! — But  you'd  be  safe 
there,  you  child — !" 

She  paused  for  breath,  triumphant. 

"I'll  tell  him  to  fetch  you,"  she  said.  "The 
lawyer.  Wait  a  minute — I  have  his  letter; 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN  5 

warning  me  that  there  is  no  money  in  it — no 
settlements,  as  he  calls  it.  I'd  be  depending 
on  the  old  woman's  charity,  like  any  stray  cat.'* 

She  went  down  immediately  on  her  knees, 
and  plunged  into  a  kit-bag  that  she  had  slung 
on  her  arm,  turning  out  its  miscellaneous  load. 
There  was  a  shiver  of  glass  as  she  fumbled, 
spilling  things  right  and  left;  and  the  stale  air 
was  scented  with  heliotrope. 

"That's  all  you  want,"  she  said,  throwing 
a  heap  of  papers  on  the  bed.  "Here's  his 
photograph.  You  can  have  it.  I  can't  tell  you 
much  about  him,  but  you'll  find  the  clues  in 
there.  He  was  good-looking,  too,  poor  fellow; 
a  great  gawk  of  a  good-for-nothing  working 
with  his  hands.  John  Barnabas  Hill — the  boys 
called  him  Lord  John  among  themselves,  and 
persuaded  me  he  was  incognito.  But  when  I 
asked  him  after  the  wedding  if  I  was  now  my 
lady,  he  just  laughed  and  laughed;  and  I  went 
right  off  in  a  passion  and  never  saw  him  again. 
It  wasn't  his  fault.  I  was  just  too  eager ;  that's 
all  there  was  to  it.  And  I'll  tell  the  lawyer 
I've  left  you  ill  in  this  wilderness.  He'll  rush 
to  your  side,  and  take  it  for  granted  that  you 
are  me.  Don't  look  so  scared.  What's  the 
matter?" 

"I  can't  do  it,"  the  girl  panted,  staring  witk 
a  dizzy  wonder  at  the  casual  Samaritan  on  her 


6  THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

knees.  Surely  the  lamp  was  sinking,  the  dark- 
ness seemed  dangerously  near,  the  kneeling 
figure  brilliant  in  a  blur.  She  tried  to  keep  a 
picture  of  that  kind  human  face  wherewith  to 
fill  the  darkness,  while  instinctively  repudia- 
ting her  mad  suggestion. 

"Bubbish!"  said  the  woman.  "It's  the 
simplest  thing.  You  do  nothing. — And  you're 
an  actress." 

"But  I  cannot,"  the  girl  said  over  and  over 
again,  holding  fast. 

"You'll  hurt  nobody,"  urged  the  woman,  at- 
taining to  some  imperfect  apprehension  of  an 
attitude  of  mind  that  would  not,  even  in  ex- 
tremity, buy  help  with  falsehood.  "If  I'm 
willing  to  have  you  stand  in  my  shoes,  who  else 
has  a  right  to  grumble?  It's  perfectly  fair  all 
round.  Look!  I'm  stuffing  these  papers  under 
your  pillow.  I'll  tell  them  all  outside  that  an 
English  lawyer  is  coming  for  you,  and  that'll 
make  things  easy.  Don't  hinder  me  leaving 
you  with  a  clear  conscience.  I've  been  your 
friend,  haven't  I?  Hush,  hush !  I  tell  you  you 
must.  .  .  .  I'll  not  let  you  die  in  this  den. 
I'll  not  be  haunted—!" 

There  was  a  tramping  in  the  bar  without. 
They  were  going.  She  tumbled  her  belongings 
into  the  bag,  and  clapped  it  shut.  The  rest  of 
them  were  calling  her. 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN  7 

"Luck!"  she  said,  "and  good-bye." 

Her  eyes  dimmed  unexpectedly,  and  she  bent 
in  a  shamefaced  hurry,  printing  a  kiss  on  the 
girl's  cheek  .  .  .  and  fled. 

The  door  closed.  In  imagination  one  might 
see  the  midnight  train  thundering  towards  the 
watchers — hear  the  grinding  of  the  brakes. 
To  the  bustle  had  succeeded  a  dreadful  still- 
ness. They  had  all  gone  like  shadows,  and  the 
listener  was  deserted. 

"I  can't  .  .  .  I  can't  .  .  .  I  can't!" 
she  reiterated  in  a  sobbing  whisper,  casting  the 
strange  chance  from  her  with  a  last  effort  of 
consciousness.  The  lamp  was  dying,  and  the 
world  seemed  to  be  turning  round.  In  that  un- 
friended darkness  the  ring  on  her  finger  was 
glittering  like  a  charm. 


CHAPTER    H 

THE  day's  hunting  was  over. 

Of  the  hundreds  who  had  jostled  each  other 
in  the  first  run,  a  disreputable  few  survived, 
pulling  up  after  that  last  gallop.  They  grinned 
contentedly,  drawing  out  their  watches. 
Thirty-five  minutes  from  the  wood;  a  straight 
fox  and  elbow-room.  It  had  been  worth  stop- 
ping out  for,  though  now  the  dusk  was  thicken- 
ing fast,  and  the  huntsman  was  calling  off  his 
hounds. 

" Where's  Rackham?"  asked  one  man,  peer- 
ing into  the  hollow. 

"Gone  home.  I  saw  his  back  as  we  came 
through  Pickwell." 

"That  wasn't  Eackham.  That  was  Bond, 
hurrying  home  to  tea." 

"He's  probably  come  to  grief.  His  horse 
had  had  about  enough  when  I  lost  him." 

Another  man  popped  his  head  over  the  hedge 
that  had  worsted  him.  His  hat  was  stove  in, 
and  his  tired  animal  was  blowing  on  the  farther 
side. 

"He's  all  right,"  he  said.  "The  devil  looks 
after  his  own.  I  turned  the  most  horrible 
somersault  back  yonder,  through  my  horse 

8 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN  9 

catching  his  leg  in  a  binder ;  and  before  I  could 
pick  myself  up,  over  shoots  Eackham,  practio- 
ally  on  the  top  of  us.  If  he'd  even  given  me 
time  to  roll  into  the  ditch! — Down  he  went  to 
the  water.  ...  I  wish  I  could  think  he  was 
swimming  in  it." 

''He's  not  far,  anyhow.  Hark  to  him.  I'd! 
know  that  laugh  of  his  a  mile  off.  There  he 
goes — 'Haw,  haw,  haw!' — all  by  himself,  in  the 
valley." 

They  turned  their  heads  to  listen,  with  a 
broadening  and  sympathetic  grin,  as  the  dim 
outline  of  a  horseman  took  shape  in  the  semi- 
obscurity,  travelling  upwards.  It  wasn't  at 
all  unlike  Eackham  to  turn  up  like  that,  though 
there  hadn't  been  a  sign  of  him  till  they  heard 
his  laughter.  The  wonder  would  have  been  if 
he  had  let  himself  be  beaten  altogether.  What 
obstinacy  had  kept  him  going  was  explained  by 
the  spur  marks  on  his  horse's  sides  as  he 
brushed  through  a  gap  and  took  stock  of  the 
diminished  party,  the  handful  that  had,  by  a 
minute  or  two,  outstripped  him. 

"Only  the  tough  'uns  in  it,"  he  said.  "It 
wasn't  bad.  Has  the  fox  dipped  into  the  sun- 
set and  left  you  staring!  Where  are  we?  We 
must  feel  our  way  home,  or  let  the  horses  smell 
it  out." 

"He's  run  into   a  drain.    The  usual  end. 


10  THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

What  was  the  joke?"  asked  the  nearest  man. 
Eackham  pulled  out  his  yellow  silk  handker- 
chief, and  twisted  it  round  his  throat.  He  was 
hot,  and  the  air  was  clammy.  With  that,  and 
his  wild  eyes,  and  his  sandy  moustache,  he 
looked  like  a  handsome  bandit. 

"It's  turning  cold,"  he  said.  "What? 
Didn't  you  hear  the  plaintive  toot  of  a  motor 
lying  in  wait  for  the  man  who  sells  pills?  I'm 
morally  certain  the  millionaire  is  feebly  chasing 
his  hunter  round  and  round  that  big  field  with 
the  mole-hills  in  it,  miles  and  miles  behind.  I 
suppose  the  chauffeur  had  his  orders;  but  it 
would  be  a  charity  to  hint  that  following 
hounds  is  the  worst  way  to  pick  up  his  master." 

"Didn't  somebody  catch  his  horse?" 

"Oh,  I  did,  and  chucked  him  the  reins;  but 
I  didn't  see  him  get  on  to  him.  I'll  bet  the 
idiot  let  him  go." 

"Do  him  good.  He'll  probably  sit  on  a  gate 
and  pass  the  time  inventing  another  pill." 

"Awful  if  he's  benighted,  and  all  the  ghosts 
of  all  who  swallowed  the  other  pills  pop  up 
screeching — !" 

"Poor  devil;  he  will  have  a  time  of  it,  with 
the  mole-hills  and  the  thistles,  and  all  those 
ghosts." 

The  picture  called  up  was  upsetting  to  the 
general  gravity,  and  they  dispersed,  chuckling 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN  11 

in  the  increasing  twilight.  A  division  made  for 
the  turnpike,  with  here  and  there  an  individual 
branching  courageously  into  a  bridle  road ;  and 
the  larger  half  halted  under  a  sign-post  that 
stretched  illegible  arms  east  and  west  in  the 
lane.  It  was  pleasant  to  linger  a  minute  or 
two,  lighting  up,  guessing  at  their  direction. 
But  Eackham  kept  on. 

"That's  not  your  way,  Eackham,"  one  man 
called  after  him. 

The  match  flickered  at  his  cigar,  and  went 
out  as  he  threw  it  in  the  road.  His  horse  was 
walking  on  with  his  head  down,  guided  by  the 
rider's  knees. 

"Eight,"  he  shouted  back.  "It  isn't.  Is 
that  you,  Parsley?  I  nearly  jumped  on  you, 
didn't  I?" 

"You  did,"  said  one  of  the  dawdling  group. 
"He  has  been  complaining." 

"Well,  if  a  fellow  will  sit  down  unexpectedly 
before  you,  like  a  hen  under  a  motor,  how  can 
you  dodge  him?  Teach  that  lazy  brute  of 
yours  to  lift  up  his  hind  legs,  Parsley.  Do  you 
never  hit  him?" 

"I  say,"  called  the  first  man.  "Come  back. 
Where  are  you  going?"  But  Eackham  pur- 
sued his  wrong  road  untroubled. 

"He  can  make  Melton  that  way,  if  he  likes," 
said  one  of  those  who  were  looking  after  him. 


12  THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

"I  daresay  he  means  to  call  in  on  Lady  Hen- 
rietta. He  told  me  he  had  a  message  from  her, 
asking  him  to  come  over,  but  he  wasn't  going 
to  miss  a  day's  hunting  to  see  what  she  was 
up  to." 

"I  thought  they  were  at  daggers  drawn." 

"In  a  manner  of  speaking,"  said  the  first, 
dropping  his  voice  a  little;  "but  outwardly 
they  are  civil.  Of  course,  she  hates  him  com- 
ing in  for  poor  Barnaby 's  property,  and  I 
know  he  was  at  the  bottom  of  that  row  that 
made  Barnaby  rush  abroad." 

"Ah,  I  remember,  Eackham  flirted  furiously 
with  Julia — " 

They  edged  instinctively  nearer  to  each 
other,  snatching  at  an  enlivening  bit  of  gossip 
as  they  jogged  on  together  with  the  bats  swoop- 
ing overhead. 

"No  mistake  about  that.  And  she  let 
Barnaby  see  plainly  that  she  was  ready  to  drop 
her  bone  for — his  cousin.  Of  course,  Eackham 
is  a  bigger  match.  She's  one  of  these  women 
who  can't  perceive  that  titles  are  getting 
vulgar." 

"Eum  chap,  Eackham.  I  can't  quite  make 
him  out.  What  did  he  do  it  for?" 

"He  owed  Barnaby  one,  perhaps.  I  don't 
think  he  was  fond  of  Julia.  Anyhow,  he  didn't 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN  13 

rise  to  her  expectations;  and  so  she  relapsed, 
and  repented,  and  trails  about  now  like  a 
mourning  bride.  Poor  old  Barnaby;  he'll  be 
missed.  .  .  .  And  we'll  never  hear  what 
wild  things  he  did  out  there." 

"Desperate  sort  of  cure,  to  disappear  in  the 
backwoods,  and  never  call  on  his  bankers. 
Just  like  him  though. — But  he  shouldn't  have 
got  himself  killed  in  a  scuffle  in  some  outland- 
ish quarter,  and  spoilt  the  yarn.'* 

The  man  next  him  grunted. 

"Who  started  the  rumour  that  it  wasn't  an 
accident,"  he  inquired;  "but  that  life  without 
Julia  wasn't  worth  tuppence  to  him,  and  so — 
and  so — ?" 

"Shut  up,  Parsley.  Don't  you  circulate  it," 
put  in  his  neighbour  hastily.  "Heaven  send 
Lady  Henrietta  hasn't  got  hold  of  that." 

"By  George,  if  the  tale  came  to  her 
ears — !" 

The  last  man  mended  his  pace.  He  had 
hung  back  a  little. 

"Eackham's  bearing  to  the  right,"  he  struck 
in.  "You  can  hear  the  horse  trotting  on  the 
hill.  He  must  be  turning  in  to  see  Lady  Hen- 
rietta. I  wonder  what  on  earth  she  wants  him 
for.  It  was  a  rather  portentous  message." 

They  had  reached  a  rougher  bit  of  road  and 


14  THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

their  voices  grew  indistinct,  drowned  in  a  tired 
clatter  of  horses'  hoofs,  and  died  away  in  the 
distance. 

Rackham  himself  could  not  guess  the  reason 
for  Lady  Henrietta's  summons.  Latterly  there 
had  been  war  between  him  and  his  aunt. 
Something  must  have  happened  to  mitigate 
the  rigour  of  her  ban,  but  he  rather  fancied  the 
circumstances  must  be  uncommon  that  could 
accomplish  that.  He  was  curious,  and  not  the 
less  so  when,  having  left  his  horse  to  a  bucket 
of  gruel,  he  walked  stiffly  across  from  the 
stables,  and  letting  himself  in  at  the  hall  door, 
found  himself  face  to  face  with  another  vis- 
itor, who  had  just  arrived  and  was  slipping  off 
her  furs. 

11  Julia!'*  he  said,  taken  aback  at  her  pres- 
ence in  this  house.  She  acknowledged  his 
amazement  with  a  trickling  laugh.  Her  voice 
had  a  note  of  melancholy  importance. 

1  'Is  it  so  unnatural,"  she  said  reproachfully, 
"that  you  should  find  me  here?" 

The  man  bit  his  lip,  looking  at  her.  To 
ihim  there  was  humour  in  her  romantic 
pose. 

They  had  once  been  so  well  acquainted — 
though  lately  she  had  affected  short-sighted- 
ness when  she  saw  him — that  he  imagined  he 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN  15 

understood  her.  He  rather  admired  an  in- 
vincible vanity  that  had  ignored  disappoint- 
ment and  defied  scoffing  tongues  by  making 
this  bid  for  public  sympathy.  It  was  a 
brilliant  move,  but  he  had  never  thought  it 
would  impose  on  Lady  Henrietta,  that  worldly 
woman  with  a  hot  corner  in  her  heart  for  any- 
body who  could  squeeze  in,  but  an  implacable 
spirit.  She  had  held  out  stubbornly  up 
to  now. 

''Well — I  don't  know,"  he  said,  hesitating, 
swallowing  his  amusement. 

Julia  lifted  her  tragic  eyes  to  his.  Perhaps 
she  was  not  sorry  he  should  witness  her 
recognition  in  this  house.  The  trailing  black 
garments  that  she  was  wearing  for  Barnaby 
lent  a  majestic  sweep  to  her  full  outlines,  and 
there  was  a  kind  of  bloom  on  her  cheeks.  She 
reminded  one  of  a  big  purple  pansy. 

The  butler,  an  old  family  servant,  one  of 
those  that  know  too  much,  had  closed  the 
great  door,  shutting  out  the  wind  and  the 
stormy  sky,  already  night-ridden ;  and  was  now 
waiting  discreetly  in  the  background.  Kack- 
ham  nodding  to  him,  remarked  a  curious 
twinkle  on  his  face,  but  when  he  looked  again 
it  was  wooden. 

"I  knew  she  would  send  for  me  at  last," 
crowed  Julia.  "People  called  her  selfish  and 


16  THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

cruel,  but  I  told  everybody  I  understood.  I 
told  them  to  give  her  time.  It  must  be  so  dif- 
ficult for  her  to  realise  that  someone  else  was 
closer  to  poor  Barnaby  than  even  she.  How 
could  she  help  feeling,  at  first,  a  little  jealousy 
of  my  grief!" 

"I  was  sent  for,  too,"  said  Eackham  bluntly. 
"She  said  she  had  something  to  show  me." 

"Poor  dear!"  said  Julia.  "How  touching 
that  she  should  think  of  it.  You  were  his 
cousin,  and  she  wants  you  to  witness  her  do 
me  justice." 

The  man  smiled  to  himself  at  her  manner 
of  glancing  backwards  at  their  fellowship  in 
disgrace.  Was  it  possible  that  his  aunt  had 
really  made  up  her  mind  to  forget  and  forgive, 
and  fall  upon  Julia's  neck?  He  felt  a  twinge 
of  something  like  shame. 

"We  mustn't  keep  her  waiting,"  said  Julia. 
"Is  she  in  the  library,  Macdonald?  That  is 
where  she  used  to  sit.  .  .  ." 

Already  she  was  assuming  her  ancient  inti- 
macy with  the  ways  of  the  house,  and  the  serv- 
ant made  way  for  her  as  she  passed  him, 
traversing  the  hall  with  a  mournful  swagger. 

Lady  Henrietta  was  knitting  hard. 

She  sat  in  a  deep  sofa  by  the  fire,  turned 


THE  ,WAY  OF  A  WOMAN  17 

so  that  it  faced  the  hangings  that  screened  off 
the  outer  hall.  The  library  was  so  big  that 
it  seemed  to  reach  at  either  end  into  darkness, 
and  the  lamps  made  little  islands  of  brilliance 
here  and  there  in  the  prevailing  gloom.  Be- 
hind, with  the  books,  there  was  another  fire- 
place, a  red  and  glimmering  hearth  where  two 
or  three  dogs  lay,  warm  and  sleepy,  dreaming  of 
winter  tramps  and  a  man  calling  them  to  heel. 
One,  a  terrier  with  a  bitten  ear,  had  started 
half -awake  on  a  run  down  the  room,  but  she 
could  not  settle  on  the  other  rug,  and  came 
back  restlessly  to  her  post  on  the  shabbier  tiger- 
skin. 

Barnaby's  mother  had  a  thin,  hard,  eager 
face,  with  a  flick  of  colour  high  on  her  cheek- 
bones. Not  an  unkind  woman,  but  one 
possessed  by  some  passion  that  had  tempered 
a  frivolous,  careless  nature  to  a  mood  of  iron. 
Her  rings  glittered  as  she  knitted,  and  the  wires 
clicked  faster  and  faster,  as  if  it  were  impos- 
sible that  her  fingers  could  be  for  a  minute 
still.  She  was  knitting  a  man's  grey-green 
shooting  stocking. 

Occasionally  her  eyes,  with  a  strange  spark 
in  them,  lit  on  a  girl  sitting  opposite,  gazing 
into  the  fire.  The  girl  was  young  and  quiet; 
her  head  shone  dark  in  the  ring  of  light;  her 


18  THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

cheek  was  pale,  but  her  short  upper  lip  showed 
courage.  Lady  Henrietta  watched  her  with  a 
fierce  joy  that  was  not  yet  liking. 

"You're  not  at  all  what  I  expected/'  she 
said  abruptly.  "I  was  afraid  of  what  I  would 
see,  and  I  didn't  dare  to  look  at  you  when  you 
arrived  last  night; — but  twenty  times  I  turned 
the  handle  of  your  bedroom  door.  At  last,  I 
poked  my  head  in  when  you  were  asleep, 
just  to  know  the  worst. — I  nearly  dropped  the 
candle  when  I  saw  your  little  head  on  the  pil- 
low." 

"What  did  you  expect?"  the  girl  said  faintly. 

"A  great,  coarse,  fine  woman,  snoring,"  said 
Lady  Henrietta. 

All  at  once  she  bent  forward,  putting  her 
knitting  into  the  girl's  hands.  There  was  sig- 
nificance in  the  gesture. 

"Pick  up  that  stitch  for  me,"  she  said.  "He 
never  liked  ladders  in  his  stockings." 

There  was  no  shake  in  the  hard  jauntiness 
of  her  voice,  but  the  girl,  searching  with  bent 
head  for  the  dropped  stitch,  felt  her  fingers 
tremble  as  they  touched  the  rough  worsted — 
felt  something  pluck  at  her  heart.  Barnaby 
was  dead,  and  she  had  never  known  him;  but 
he  was  the  one  real  person  walking  through  a 
dream  in  which  she  had  lost  herself. 

She  was  not  strong  yet.    She  still  had  a 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN  19 

trick  of  putting  out  her  hand  to  some  steady 
object  when  she  stood  up  alone.  And  at  first 
she  had  not  understood — too  ill  to  question,  not 
wondering.  It  was  as  if  she  had  died  one  night 
and  awakened  to  a  consciousness  of  protection, 
a  mystery  of  care  and  kindness,  of  strangers 
who  took  charge  of  her,  treating  her  like  a 
precious  doll.  When  she  at  last  knew  the  rea- 
son, she  had  felt  like  one  who,  falling  from  a 
precipice,  found  herself  clinging,  the  dizzy  hor- 
ror stopped  by  a  branch; — she  could  not  let 
it  go. 

So  they  had  found  her,  and  brought  her  over 
the  sea,  and  put  her  to  bed  in  a  great,  com- 
fortable room,  in  a  house  that  was  haunted. 
It  was  Barnaby's  house,  and  it  was  for  Bar- 
naby's  sake  that  people  were  kind  to  her. 
Somehow  they  were  all  shadows  to  her  beside 
the  thought  of  him.  His  name  had  been  in- 
voked to  shelter  her;  it  had  been  enough  to 
lift  her  out  of  despair.  She  had  begun  to  feel 
safe  in  a  confused  assurance  that  she  belonged 
to  him. 

She  remembered  last  night.  She  remem- 
bered the  door  sliding  softly,  and  a  rustle  in 
the  room,  and  how  she  had  lain  quite  still,  shut- 
ting her  eyes,  holding  her  breath,  startled  out 
of  sleep.  Someone  was  smoothing  the  bed- 
clothes under  her  chin.  She  longed  to  cover 


20  THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

her  face,  but  could  not.  It  was  not  a  ghost, 
for  mortal  fingers  had  touched  her  cheek. 
Soon  the  rustle  had  withdrawn  from  her  bed- 
side, and  she  had  heard  a  little  sound  that 
might  have  been  a  sigh.  Afterwards  the  door 
had  closed,  and  the  room  was  empty. 

Seized  by  an  unaccountable  impulse,  she  had 
put  her  foot  to  the  floor,  and  crossed  the  wide 
carpet  to  the  fireplace,  where  the  visitor  had 
gone  from  her  side.  The  fire  had  fallen  in, 
flaring  high  in  a  quivering  blaze,  and  by  its 
light  she  had  seen  that  over  the  chimney- 
piece  hung  the  picture  of  a  man.  Instinct  had 
told  her  who  it  was,  and  she  stared  at  him,  fas- 
cinated. 

The  other  woman  had  left  her  the  wrong 
photograph  in  her  hurry.  This  was  no  weak 
boy  with  a  foolish  mouth,  bundled  over-seas  by 
his  people.  This  was  a  man  with  a  steady  face 
that  betrayed  nothing  of  himself,  and  eyes  that 
held  her  startled  gaze.  Blue  eyes,  audacious 
and  understanding.  Her  heart  beat  strangely. 
For  this  must  be  Barnaby  the  reckless,  who 
had  married  a  wife  and  got  himself  killed 
.  .  .  and  she,  poor  fool,  was  calling  herself 
his  widow. 

She  clung  to  the  chimney-piece,  shivering 
with  excitement,  a  quaint,  slight  figure  in  her 
white  night-dress. 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN  21 

"I'll  hurt  nobody.  ...  I'll  hurt  no- 
body!" she  was  explaining  to  him  in  an  implor- 
ing whisper ;  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  the  man 
in  the  picture  smiled. 

" — There,  give  it  back  to  me,"  said  Lady 
Henrietta  jealously,  and  her  voice  scattered 
mists  of  imagination.  "You  don't  think  I'm 
crazy,  do  you?  You  know  why  it  is  I  can't 
stop  knitting  his  stockings. — We'll  not  talk 
about  him,  Susan.  You  and  I  have  each  our 
own  memories,  and  we  can't  share  them. — I 
don't  want  yours.  But  we'll  fight  for  him  to- 
gether; since  he  belongs  to  us." 

Her  manner  took  on  a  sudden  fierceness. 

"I've  not  told  anybody  about  you  yet,"  she 
said.  "I've  been  hugging  the  secret  for  pur- 
poses of  my  own.  I  am  a  wicked  woman, 
Susan.  Upon  my  honour,  if  you  hadn  't  existed, 
I'd  have  been  obliged  to  invent  you.  If  you 
hadn't  come  to  me,  I'd  have  searched  the  world 
for  an  imitation,  from  end  to  end.  How  he 
would  laugh  at  me! — But  we'll  not  talk  about 
him — we  couldn't  bear  it.  Only  we'll  fight  for 
him,  as  I  said.  We'll  not  let  his  enemies 
triumph  and  pretend  that  they  broke  his 
heart. ' ' 

Her  voice  was  quicker,  charged  with  a  pas- 
sionate haste  that  hurried  the  words  out  before 
she  could  close  her  lips. 


22  THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

"You  little  pale  thing,"  she  said.  "I  am 
not  a  kissing  woman  .  .  .  but  .  .  . 
oh,  you  don't  know  what  you  are  to  me.  Wait. 
I'll  make  you  understand.  There's  a  creature 
here  who  behaved  shamefully  to  my  boy  .  .  . 
to  him.  And  now  he  is  dead  she  goes  about 
boasting,  claiming  him  as  her  victim,  hinting 
to  all  who  will  listen  that  he  killed  himself  for 
love  of  her.  It's  not  true.  .  .  .  You'll 
teach  them  it  is  not  true ! ' ' 

She  stopped,  controlling  herself.  In  the  hall 
outside  there  was  the  slight  bustle  of  an  arrival, 
and  voices,  muffled  by  distance,  came  faintly 
through.  As  suddenly  as  she  had  spoken,  she 
checked  her  outburst  of  confidence,  and  picked 
up  her  knitting  with  a  terrible  little  smile. 

"I  know  who  it  is  that's  coming,"  she  said 
grimly.  "A  woman,  Susan — a  woman  who 
dresses  in  black,  and  prates  of  a  misunder- 
standing. ' ' 

They  came  in  together,  the  man  blinking  a 
little  after  his  ride  in  the  twilight,  approach- 
ing with  a  stiff  gait  and  clinking  spurs; 
the  woman  swimming  triumphantly  up  the 
room. 

"Dear  Lady  Henrietta!"  she  murmured,  a 
ready  quiver  in  her  emotional  Irish  voice. 

"How  do  you  do,  Julia?"  said  Lady  Hen- 
rietta. She  had  recovered  an  extraordinary 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN  23 

calm.  "Did  you  and  Eackham  meet  on  the 
doorstep!  I  am  pleased  to  see  you  both." 

Her  ominous  quietness  struck  the  man,  more 
observant.  His  instinct  had  not  disappointed 
him,  that  was  clear;  he  marked  her  attitude 
with  an  inward  chuckle.  Something  tremen- 
dous was  toward. 

"You  are  looking  well,  Aunt  Henrietta,"  he 
said  politely.  "Do  you  mind  my  smoking? 
We  had  a  tiring  day,  and  I  missed  my  only 
sandwich. ' ' 

"Macdonald  will  look  after  you,"  she  said. 
"Make  him  get  you  anything  you  want." 

' '  Thanks, ' '  said  Eackham.  '  *  I  '11  have  some- 
thing before  I  go.  I  meant  to  ask  him  for  a 
whisky  and  soda,  but  he  shot  us  in  here. — I 
thought  the  old  chap  seemed  a  bit  excited. ' ' 

"Yes,"  said  Lady  Henrietta.  "They  were 
all  so  devoted  to  Barnaby.  Naturally  they 
share  my  feelings — "  She  paused  signifi- 
cantly, and  he  could  see  that  she  was  watching 
Julia.  "My  son  has  given  me  a  legacy.  .  .  . 
He  has  left  me  his  wife." 

' '  How  sVeet  of  you  to  put  it  like  that  I ' '  said 
Julia. 

She  had  established  herself  on  the  sofa  with- 
out an  instant's  delay,  taking  figurative  pos- 
session, too  self-absorbed  to  appreciate  any 
by-play.  Her  head  was  full  of  the  tardy  capitu- 


24  THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

lation  of  her  fellow-mourner,  and  she,  in  her 
own  eyes,  was  the  principal  figure  here.  But 
Eackham,  looking  on,  all  but  shouted. 

"What?"  he  said.  "Poor  old  Barnaby! 
Married?  Good  Lord!  how  did  it  come 
about?" 

Julia  turned  round  and  stared  at  him. 

"Lord  Eackham!"  she  said.  "Are  you 
mad?" 

Lady  Henrietta  made  a  motion  with  her  hand 
towards  the  girl  sitting  in  the  background. 
She  could  not  trust  herself  to  speak  to  the 
woman  whose  outrageous  complacency  had  sur- 
vived her  blow. 

"My  dear,"  she  said,  "this  is  your  hus- 
band's cousin.  He  gets  everything  when  I  die 
— things  are  so  wickedly  entailed  in  this  family 
— except  a  pittance  I  mean  to  scrape  up  for 
you.  You  know  I  don't  chatter,  Eackham. 
You  can  understand  I  didn't  care  to  set  the 
neighbourhood  talking  until  I  had  Susan 
here. ' ' 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  triumphant  note 
in  her  proclamation. 

The  girl  coloured  faintly.  They  were  all 
looking  at  her  now;  the  strange  woman  with  a 
startled  face,  the  man  curiously.  Some  like- 
ness in  him  to  the  picture  that  hung  upstairs 
troubled  her.  So  Barnaby  might  have  looked, 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN  25 

his  dare-devil  glance  falling  on  her  with  a  quiz- 
zical compassion. 

Backhands  wits  were  not  slow.  He  crossed 
over  to  her  side,  and  took  up  his  station  on  the 
hearthrug,  so  close  to  her  that  his  splashed 
scarlet  coat  almost  brushed  her  black  sleeve. 
Barnaby  had  been  dressed  like  him  in  the  pic- 
ture, gallant  in  hunting  clothes.  Would  Bar- 
naby have  stood  by  her?  For  she  understood 
the  significance  of  his  action.  This  man  wanted 
to  be  her  friend.  She  trembled  a  little,  won- 
dering why. 

Lady  Henrietta  took  no  more  notice  of  him 
than  if  he  had  been  a  vexing  shadow  put  in  his 
place.  His  strategic  movement  was  lost  on 
her.  Barnaby 's  mother,  in  her  thirst  to  pun- 
ish, her  eagerness  in  striking  for  the  sake  of 
her  son,  had  not  time  to  consider  that  the  sword 
in  her  hand  was  his  wife.  Her  eyes  were  shin- 
ing with  the  fire  that  had  burnt  up  her  tears, 
and  they  were  fixed  on  the  enchantress  who 
had  wrecked  Barnaby 's  life,  and  was  trading 
on  his  old  infatuation,  making  a  bid  for  public 
sympathy  by  flaunting  her  forfeited  hold  on 
him. 

"I  can't  understand,"  said  Julia,  with  a 
gasp.  "  Barnaby  was  not  married.  .  .  ." 

But  she  was  shaken.  Her  blank  amazement 
was  turning  visibly  to  dismay.  This  stroke 


26  THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

was  so  sharp,  so  inconceivable,  that  she  lost  her 
head,  refusing  to  believe  in  the  humbling  reve- 
lation. 

"It's  a  plot!"  she  cried  all  at  once.  ''A  plot 
against  me.  What  have  I  done  to  be  treated 
like  this?  Why  should  I  be  insulted? — Every- 
body knows  that  Barnaby  and  I — " 

"Don't  be  an  idiot,  Julia,"  said  Eackharn 
softly,  but  it  was  not  his  interruption  that 
stopped  her  passionate  surrender  to  the  Irish- 
woman's instinct  to  have  it  out  with  the 
world. 

Perhaps  the  actress  was  uppermost  in  Susan, 
or  perhaps  an  odd  impulse  of  loyalty  to  the 
dead  man  whose  ring  she  wore  carried  her  out 
of  herself.  Her  heart  was  hot  against  the 
woman  who  had  played  fast  and  loose  with 
him,  and  it  taught  her  how  one  who  belonged 
to  Barnaby  would  have  faced  this  moment. 
His  wife  would  not  be  a  coward,  would  not  sit, 
a  piteous  listener,  in  the  background;  she  had 
his  memory  to  uphold.  And  so  she  found  her- 
self standing  up,  confronting  the  stranger  in  a 
proud  silence  that  was  more  eloquent  than  re- 
proach. Slowly,  without  a  word,  she  moved 
onwards  to  leave  the  room. 

"Gad!"  said  Eackham,  under  his  breath. 
He  liked  that. 

Something  like  awe  had  smitten  Julia.    She 


"  Tell  me  who  you  are,"  she  panted  hysterically 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN  27 

remained  a  moment  transfixed,  staring  after 
her,  all  exclamation  hushed  on  her  reckless  lips. 
Then,  all  at  once,  she  followed. 

"Tell  me  who  you  are,"  she  panted  hysteric- 
ally. "It's  all  nonsense,  isn't  it? — It's  a 
sham?" 

Lady  Henrietta  was  watching  the  scene  from 
her  sofa,  and  so  was  Eackham,  standing  with 
his  back  to  the  fire.  They  were  both  far  off. 
It  was  a  swift  and  dramatic  minute. 

"His  mother  hates  me,"  said  Julia,  half  to 
herself;  her  hold  tightened  on  the  girl's  arm. 
"She's  capable  of  anything.  She — What 
colour  were  his  eyes?" 

The  question  was  flung  at  her  without  warn- 
ing. But  a  man's  face  stood  out  distinct  in 
the  girl's  imagination,  haunting  her  with  a 
clearness  none  of  these  other  faces  had;  smil- 
ing whimsically  down  from  his  picture  all  this 
while  she  was  letting  people  proclaim  her  his. 
.  .  .  Somehow  she  was  defending  him,  cov- 
ering his  hurt. 

Without  thinking,  without  a  pause — 

"Blue,"  she  said. 

The  other  woman's  hand  dropped.  She  let 
her  go. 

Susan  let  the  velvet  hangings  fall  heavily 
behind  her  as  she  came  through.  A  kind  of 
wonder  at  herself  possessed  her,  and  her  knees 


28  THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

trembled.  Mechanically  she  traversed  the  hall, 
and  began  to  climb  the  wide  staircase,  lean- 
ing a  little  as  she  went,  on  the  solid  oak  bal- 
ustrade. 

On  the  first  landing  a  window  faced  the  stair, 
and  right  and  left  ran  corridors,  interminable, 
and  equally  mysterious  to  the  stranger,  who 
was,  in  a  manner,  lost  in  this  unknown  house. 
She  sank  down  on  the  window-seat,  set  deep 
in  the  thickness  of  the  wall. 

Outside,  the  sky  was  dark  with  a  strange  red, 
as  of  furnaces  under  the  horizon,  glimmering 
in  the  west.  She  could  just  distinguish  the 
jutting  corner  of  the  more  antique  part  of  the 
house,  built  as  it  was  in  different  centuries,  bit 
by  bit.  That  side  was  strangely  ornamented 
with  mediaeval  figures — the  images  of  ancient 
warriors,  all  battered  and  weather-stained. 
And  the  land  they  had  won  was  quiet,  lying  half 
asleep;  only  the  trees  still  restless  as  night 
came  on. 

She  turned  her  face.  In  front  of  her 
gleamed  the  shallow  stair,  running  straight  into 
the  hall  below,  and  all  the  way  down  hung 
pictures,  men  and  women  who  had  lived  in  this 
house,  and  trod  the  stairs,  hurrying,  lagging, 
or  perhaps  clinging,  as  she  had  in  her  weakness 
clung  to  the  balustrade.  Some  were  ill-painted, 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN  29 

some  stared  wickedly;  but  all  of  them  were 
watching.  There  was  history  in  their  eyes. 

The  girl  felt  a  queer  fellowship  with  the 
still  procession;  she,  whose  only  title  among 
them  was  make-believe.  Perhaps,  in  forgotten 
times,  her  own  people  had  fought  and  loved 
and  ridden  side  by  side  with  these,  and  their 
descendant  had  come  back  to  a  friend's  house. 

How  good  it  would  be  to  let  the  world  go  on, 
to  walk  in  a  dream  always,  and  not  struggle 
any  more. 

She  thought,  with  a  remote  disdain,  of  the 
scene  downstairs.  Her  heart  was  still  beating 
quickly;  but  that  gripping  sense  of  the  theatre 
had  left  her.  And  she  knew  she  had  conquered. 
Barnaby's  memory  was  safe  from  the  woman 
his  mother  hated.  One  could  imagine  her 
claim  collapsing,  one  could  hear  her  voluble 
excuse,  pleading  bewilderment,  accepting  the 
situation — with  perhaps  a  plaintive  expression 
of  her  relief  in  knowing  she  was,  after  all,  not 
as  guilty  as  gossip  said — had  Lady  Henrietta 
heard  the  dreadful  rumours?  And  Barnaby's 
mother  would  smile  at  the  thrust  with  victory 
in  her  soul,  while  the  man,  his  cousin,  would 
look  on,  smothering  his  chuckle,  with  his  head 
on  one  side  like  a  magpie,  and  a  splash  of  mud 
that  had  dried  on  his  cheek. 


30  THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

It  was  his  step  she  heard  first  as  they  came 
out  into  the  hall.  He  and  Julia  were  leaving 
together,  she  talking  fast.  Her  voice,  charged 
with  subdued  excitement,  rose  and  fell  on 
a  singing  note.  What  she  was  saying  did  not 
reach  up  the  stairs;  only  its  contralto  music. 
The  sound  of  it  awakened  Susan  in  her  mood 
of  overwrought  exultation.  Reality  came  back 
to  her  with  a  shock.  She  remembered  another 
yoice  as  warm,  as  emotional,  with  the  same 
theatrical  tune  of  tears;  and  she  remembered 
the  dangerous  charity  that  had  mocked  her 
opposition.  Stripped  of  its  fantastic  mist  of 
adventure,  she  looked  at  her  own  story,  and 
was  ashamed.  Her  very  scorn  of  the  woman 
against  whom  she  had  been  pitted  turned  on 
herself  and  scorched  her,  ranking  her  as  low. 
She  and  Julia — no,  she  could  not  bear  to  be 
judged  with  Julia.  The  romantic  sophistry 
that  had  comforted  her  was  gone,  and  nothing 
could  stay  her  desperate  longing  to  be  honest. 

They  passed  underneath.  Eackham  was 
helping  Julia  into  her  furs,  was  hunting  for 
her  muff,  with  his  face  to  the  stair.  The  girl 
above  held  her  breath.  His  nearness  affected 
her  with  a  kind  of  panic. 

She  had  an  intuition  that  he  was  the  kind  of 
man  who  would — guess.  She  thought  of  his 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN  31 

quick  movement  to  her  side,  his  presumptuous 
readiness  to  stand  by  her,  unspoken  but  un- 
mistakable, with  an  unexplained  alarm.  Would 
they  never  go  I  Why  did  he  loiter,  looking  up- 
wards with  that  inexplicable  smile? 

As  the  great  door  shut,  at  last,  on  a  silence, 
she  sprang  up  and  went  downstairs.  It  was 
a  pity  she  was  not  stronger.  One  should  not 
go  to  be  judged  with  a  tottering  step.  And 
she  would  want  all  her  courage.  Knowing  the 
spirit  in  which  Barnaby's  mother  had  dealt 
with  Julia,  she  did  not  look  for  mercy. 

But  Lady  Henrietta  was  not  sitting  upright 
and  watchful,  with  that  look  of  ruthlessness 
stamped  on  her  thin,  hard,  pretty  face.  She 
had  thrown  herself  across  the  sofa,  her  fast- 
knitting  fingers  idle,  the  half -finished  stocking 
that  would  never  be  worn  fallen  from  her  hand 
to  the  floor.  She  lay  like  a  broken  reed;  de- 
prived of  the  motive  that  had  sustained  her — 
and  she  was  crying. 

That  sight  stirred  all  the  heart  in  Susan. 
She  ran  to  her  blindly,  only  conscious  of  a  great 
compassion  that  shamed  her  selfish  terror  of 
the  weight  of  a  lie.  She  could  not  tell  her 
.  .  .  now. 

And  Barnaby's  mother  looked  up  at  her  ap- 
proach. Something  of  the  old  defiant  jaunti- 


32  THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

ness  came  back  to  her  for  a  minute.     She  tried 
to  laugh. 

"Come  here  and  kiss  me,"  she  called.  There 
was  a  fierce  tenderness  in  her  cry — "you 
darling — I" 


CHAPTER  III 

SUSAN  had  flung  from  her  with  both  hands  the 
imprudent  longing  to  cry  out  her  story. 

Somehow  she  felt  that  if  she  spoke  now  she 
would  be  a  traitor.  It  was  too  late  to  look 
back;  for  good  or  ill  she  had  changed  places 
with  the  other  woman  who  would  not  come. 
To  fail  now  would  not  be  to  clear  her  honour, 
it  would  be  to  desert  her  post. 

When  Lady  Henrietta,  having  triumphed, 
had  given  way  at  last,  and  had  clung  to  Susan, 
the  girl,  gathered  in  that  fierce  clasp,  had 
known  that  Barnaby's  mother  took  passionate 
comfort  in  her  only  because  the  stranger  was 
something  that  had  belonged  to  him.  To 
deny  her  that  comfort  would  be  to  rob  one 
who  had  nothing  left.  Could  she,  by  a  wistful 
life  of  devotion,  justify  herself,  not  in  the 
sight  of  man,  not  to  hard  judges — but  perhaps 
to  this  Barnaby  who  was  dead,  and  who  would 
surely  understand!  Keeping  silent,  she  prom- 
ised him  that  she  would. 

Day  after  day  passed  over  her  head,  building 
an  unsteady  wall  between  her  and  that  pitiless 
outside  world  in  which  she  had  been  like  a 
driven  leaf,  without  hope  or  foothold.  She  be- 

33 


34=  THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

came  accustomed  to  the  lazy  peace  of  the  house, 
to  the  watchful  offices  of  the  old  servants,  who 
seemed,  like  Lady  Henrietta  herself,  curiously 
proud  of  her. 

Slowly  she  grew  stronger;  her  thin  cheek 
rounded,  still  pale,  but  touched  with  a  faint 
promise  of  colour. 

One  afternoon  she  was  taking  her  solitary 
walk  in  the  park,  and  had  wandered  further 
than  she  had  been.  The  dogs  had  left  her, 
scurrying  after  rabbits,  and  she  leaned  on  a 
stile  that  offered  a  resting-place,  a  little  tired 
and  wistful,  gazing  at  the  sinking  fire  in  the 
west. 

Suddenly  the  air  was  quick  with  galloping, 
and  all  around  her  were  jumping  horses. 
Startled,  but  unafraid,  she  watched  them  com- 
ing over  the  hedge,  imagining  that  as  they  came 
they  would  vanish. 

"You  shouldn't  stay  there,  you  might  get 
hurt,"  called  someone,  pulling  up  at  her  side. 
"How  are  you!" 

She  had  been  looking  on,  as  one  would  look 
at  a  gallant  picture,  not  realising  that  she  was 
in  its  midst.  Instinctively  she  drew  back.  All 
had  stopped,  and  hounds  were  clustering  in 
the  bottom,  where  the  huntsman  had  dis- 
mounted, and  was  peering  into  a  drain.  Many 
heads  were  turned,  with  a  rough  kindness  that 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN  35 

excused  curiosity,  in  her  direction.  Perhaps 
they  were  all  Barnaby's  comrades,  who  missed 
him,  and  saw  in  the  pathetic  figure  one  who 
was  missing  him  more  than  they.  .  .  . 

But  the  man  who  had  drawn  up  beside  her 
was  leaning  down  to  her  like  an  old  friend, 
barring  out  the  rest  with  his  shoulder.  His 
horse,  still  excited,  jerked  at  his  bit,  and  flung 
a  white  flick  of  lather  on  her  black  dress. 
Without  thinking,  she  stretched  out  her  hand 
to  his  muzzle. 

"Take  care.  He's  an  uncertain  brute,"  said 
Eackham.  "You  like  horses?" 

"I  used  to  ride,"  she  said. 

Something  awoke  in  her  at  that  velvet  touch, 
and  she  could  not  finish,  thinking  of  other 
horses. 

"Good,"  he  said  quickly.  "Tell  you  what. 
I  have  a  mare  that  would  carry  you.  I'll  come 
and  talk  it  over — if  my  aunt  will  let  me  in. ' ' 

He  laughed  a  little  under  his  breath  at  that. 
"How  do  you  get  on  with  her?"  he  asked. 
"She's  a  warrior — !" 

Susan  lifted  her  eyes  to  his  face.  His  ab- 
rupt friendliness  could  not  entirely  conquer  the 
fluttering  apprehension  of  danger  in  his  good- 
nature that  made  her  unaccountably  shy  of 
him.  There  was  commiseration  in  his  look — 
and  admiration. 


36  THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

''Look  here,"  he  said;  ''we're  cousins — by 
marriage.  I've  some  warrant  to  be  officious — 
and  you're  alone  in  a  strange  land,  aren't  you? 
—and  all  that." 

Was  it  her  imagination,  or  did  he  drop  his 
voice  significantly?  Perhaps  he  was  glancing 
at  their  first  meeting,  pitying  her  as  a  reed 
bruised  in  Lady  Henrietta's  warlike  hands. 
Perhaps — no,  she  could  not  read  his  expres- 
sion. 

The  huntsman  straightened  his  back,  and 
walked  stiffly  towards  his  horse.  A  man  who 
was  giving  up  passed  by  and  gravely  took  off 
his  hat ;  she  watched  him  hooking  with  his  whip 
at  the  bridle  gate.  She  was  afraid  that  they 
would  all  ride  off  and  leave  her  with  Barnaby's 
kinsman,  and  his  penetrating  smile. 

"Anyhow,"  said  Kackham,  "I'm  here  if  you 
want  backing.  .  .  .  Just  let  me  know  if  you 
need  any  kind  of  help." 

A  scream  on  the  hidden  side  of  the  spinney 
beneath  them  linked  up  the  field,  believing  in 
one  of  the  glorious  surprises  that  light  up  the 
dragging  end  of  the  day.  The  huntsman 
pushed  right  through  the  misty  tangle,  calling 
on  his  hounds,  and  the  riders  disappeared  like 
a  swirling  river.  A  minute  and  they  were 
gone. 

The  girl  listened  breathlessly  to  the  thudding 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN  37 

of  distant  hoofs.  Her  heart  beat  a  little  too 
fast,  disturbed  by  that  brief  interlude  of  ex- 
citement. She  stood  quite  still  until  the  last 
gleam  of  scarlet  faded,  and  the  galloping  died 
away,  leaving  a  tremendous  quiet.  There  was 
no  sound  at  last  but  the  wildfowl,  far  away  on 
the  lake,  beginning  their  sunset  chaunt. 

Half  the  household  Jiad  rushed  out  to  look 
for  hounds,  and  were  returning  singly,  more 
or  less  out  of  breath,  as  the  girl  came  home. 
It  was  astonishing  what  a  commotion  the  hunt^ 
in  its  passing,  had  awakened  in  that  sad  house- 
hold. Lady  Henrietta  herself,  with  a  shawl  on 
her  head,  was  in  the  garden,  peering.  Her 
sporting  instincts  were  struggling  in  her  with 
a  kind  of  rage. 

"Tell  me  who  were  out,"  she  said.  "Oh, 
of  course  you  can't.  But  they  would  know  who 
you  are.  I  am  glad  they  saw  you.  It  would 
remind  some  of  them — a  man  is  so  soon  for- 
gotten! To  think  of  them  all  hunting  and 
fooling  just  as  they  used ;  with  him  left  out — ! 
Did  they  run  from  Tilton?  I  don't  suppose  a 
man  of  them  wasted  a  thought  on  him  till  they 
saw  you  there.  Did  they  change  foxes, 
Susan?" 

She  talked  on  eagerly,  answering  herself 
with  conjecture  as  she  hurried  the  girl  into  the 
warm  house,  out  of  the  gathering  rain.  Mac- 


38  THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

donald,  the  butler,  was  better  informed  than 
she,  and  his  mistress  seized  on  him  as  he  slipped 
in,  wiping  his  brow,  short-winded  but  tri- 
umphant. He  it  was  who  had  halloaed  the  fox 
away. 

"Come  here  and  tell  me  all  about  it,"  said 
Lady  Henrietta  sharply.  " — At  your  age, 
Macdonald — !" 

He  approached  with  solemnity,  remembering 
his  dignity,  and  his  rheumatism,  an  inextin- 
guishable light  in  his  eye. 

"They  ran  from  Owston,  my  lady,  and  lost 
the  fox  on  yon  side  of  our  bottom  spinney. 
He  must  have  been  about  done,  by  the  way 
scent  failed,  and  they  couldn't  pick  him  up 
again  for  the  gentlemen  crowding  forrard. 
No,  my  lady,  there  was  two  sticks  crossed  in 
the  earth — and  the  drainpipe  clogged.  But 
we  found  'em  one  that'll  take  them  a  sight 
farther  than  some  of  them  care  to  go.  A  real 
fine  fox  that  was!"  He  wound  up  with  real 
pride. 

"And  who  was  that  on  the  bay?"  asked 
Lady  Henrietta.  "He  took  the  fence  well, 
Macdonald. ' ' 

"That  was  his  Lordship,"  allowed  Mac- 
donald, but  grudgingly.  "Ah,  my  lady,  I  seen 
Mr.  Barnaby  take  that  very  jump  that  day  they 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN  39 

killed  their  fox  in  the  park.  Clean  and  fine  he 
went  up,  and  lighted;  he  never  smashed  no  top 
rail!" 

"I  know — I  know,"  said  Lady  Henrietta. 
"The  day  he  put  out  his  shoulder." 

"That  was  a  rabbit  hole,"  said  Macdonald 
jealously.  "Ah,  my  lady,  his  Lordship  will 
never  go  like  him ! ' ' 

Dismissing  Rackham  with  the  scorn  of  an  old 
servant  staunch  to  his  master,  he  shook  his  head 
mournfully  and  retreated.  Lady  Henrietta 
had  turned  abruptly  from  her  cross-examina- 
tion, and  held  out  her  hands  to  the  fire. 

The  incident,  slight  as  it  was,  and  brief, 
coloured  all  their  evening.  Afterwards,  Lady 
Henrietta  returned  to  the  subject,  amusing  her- 
self with  surmises.  Had  Susan  noticed  a  man 
with  a  grizzled  moustache  and  a  furtive  eye? 
— and  another  who  had  a  trick  of  jerking  out 
his  elbow? — and  one  who  rode  like  a  jack-in- 
the-box,  starting  up  continually  in  his  stirrups  1 
And  had  she  seen  a  woman  in  brown,  who 
usually  backed  in  under  the  hedge  at  a  check, 
talking  secrets  with  a  lank  man,  her  shadow, 
— and  all  unwitting  that  there  were  two  sides 
to  hedges,  and  that  voices  filtered  through? 
Insensibly,  she  branched  into  reminiscence,  tell- 
ing caustic  histories  of  these  Leicestershire  un- 


40  THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

worthies,  who  were  all  unknown  to  Susan ;  and 
the  girl  hardly  listened,  sitting  with  her  cheek 
on  her  hand  and  a  dreaming  brow. 

The  short  interlude  had  impressed  her.  But 
in  imagination  she  saw,  not  the  splendid  figure 
that  had  crashed  over  the  hedge  down  yonder, 
— but  another,  one  silently  haunting  the  dim 
pastures  where  he  had  ridden  once,  sweeping 
out  of  the  dusk,  and  passing  into  the  dusk 
again.  The  swift  scene  came  back  to  her,  with 
its  wild  rush  of  life,  hounds,  and  horsemen, — 
only,  instead  of  his  cousin,  she  pictured  Bar- 
naby,  to  whose  memory  she  had  dedicated  her- 
self. 

It  was  wearing  late.  Soon  Lady  Henrietta 
would  interrupt  herself,  breaking  off  with  a  re- 
morseful brusqueness,  and  order  her  off  to 
bed.  How  quiet  it  was  in  the  library,  that 
vast,  comfortable  room!  How  safe  she  felt, 
and  how  sleepy,  only  dreaming,  not  thinking 
of  anything. 

The  white  fox-terrier  with  the  bitten  ear 
had  stolen  down  to  her  and  lay  on  her  skirt. 
There  was  a  kind  of  fellowship  between  her 
and  the  dog.  When  it  jumped  up  all  at  once 
with  a  shiver  she  stroked  its  back  softly,  won- 
dering why  it  alone  was  excited  by  the  wind 
whistling  outside  the  house.  And  it  looked  up 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN  41 

in  her  face  and  scuttled  like  a  thing  possessed 
down  the  room. 

''What's  the  matter  with  Kit?"  said  Lady 
Henrietta,  pausing. — "I  daresay  she  heard 
Macdonald  shutting  up  in  the  hall. ' ' — And  she 
went  on  talking. 

Far  down  the  room  the  heavy  curtain  swung 
hastily,  and  fell  back.  It  was  Susan  who,  with- 
out warning,  lifted  her  eyes  and  saw  somebody 
standing  there. 

He  had  walked  right  in  out  of  the  wind  and 
rain,  had  flung  off  his  dripping  cap,  but  had 
not  waited  to  unbutton  his  greatcoat;  and  he 
looked  as  he  had  looked  in  his  picture,  but  no 
ghost — real, — with  dreadful  blue  eyes,  and 
a  smiling  mouth. 

The  girl  started  to  her  feet.  One  wild  mo- 
ment she  stared  at  him.  Her  own  cry  sounded 
strange  in  her  ears,  very  far  off  ...  and 
then  the  world  went  round. 

Slowly  she  drifted  back  into  consciousness, 
and  she  was  lying  on  her  bed,  surrounded  by 
fluttered  women,  whose  amazed  whispering 
reached  her  like  the  dim  clamour  in  a  dream. 

"Poor  thing;  poor  thing — it  was  too  much 
for  her."  "It  was  wicked  of  Mr.  Barnaby  to 
startle  her  like  that.  But  how  like  him !" 


42  THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

"Lord,  Lord!  his  face  as  she  lay  on  the 
floor! — and  his  mother  rating  him  as  if  he'd 
never  been  dead  an  hour — ! ' ' 

"  'You've  killed  her!'  said  she.  'You've 
killed  her!'  " 

"Like  as  not  she'll  go  out  of  her  mind,  poor 
lamb!" 

The  quavering  excitement  hushed  suddenly 
as  she  stirred. 

"Hold  your  noise,  you!"  the  old  house- 
keeper adjured  the  others,  pushing  them  on 
one  side,  and  patting  her  anxiously,  promising 
something  in  a  voice  that  shook,  tremulous  and 
coaxing, — as  one  might  dangle  the  moon  to 
quiet  a  frantic  child. 

Up  the  long  corridor  came  a  man's  step,  and 
the  pattering  of  a  dog.  The  housekeeper 
jumped,  and  ran  from  the  bedside,  and  the 
maids  clung  hysterically  together,  looking  with 
a  scared  eagerness  at  the  door.  A  supersti- 
tious terror  was  still  painted  on  their  faces. 

Barnaby  was  not  dead.  The  whole  dreadful 
comedy  was  scarcely  clear  to  the  girl,  so  dizzy 
was  she  with  this  one  miracle,  the  thing  that 
was  impossible,  and  was  true.  Shame  had  not 
yet  burnt  up  wonder.  She  lay  motionless, 
with  her  hands  on  her  heart,  listening  to  his 
step,  and  waiting  for  the  sound  of  a  voice 
that  she  had  never  heard. 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN  43 

"How  is  she?" 

Oh  strange,  kind  voice,  asking  that!  Susan 
caught  her  breath,  remembering  who  she  was 
not. 

The  housekeeper,  running  out,  had  closed 
the  door  nervously,  and  was  posted  with  her 
back  against  it,  half  in  a  rapture,  and  half 
reproachful. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Barnaby — !     Oh,  my  gracious!" 

Collecting  herself,  she  went  on  in  a  trem- 
bling hurry. 

"She's  come  round  at  last;  she's  come  to 
herself; — but  the  doctor  says  we  must  keep 
her  quiet.  You  can't  come  in,  sir!  It  might 
do  harm.  He  said  so  before  he  went  to  my 
lady.  ...  I  daren't  let  you  in,  Mr.  Bar- 
naby. .  .  .  Please!  .  .  .  I've  told  her 
you'll  come  to  her  in  the  morning.  .  .  . 
and  I  was  to  give  you  her  love." 

The  girl  started  up,  horror-stricken,  and  fell 
back  on  the  bed,  covering  her  face.  Would 
nothing  silence  that  foolish  tongue,  inspired 
by  its  ill-judged  haste  to  pacify  the  presumed 
impatience  of  the  man  who  had  done  the  mis- 
chief? Through  the  guarded  door,  through  her 
shut  eyes,  Susan  had  a  scorching  vision  of 
Barnaby,  the  stranger,  listening  to  that  brazen 
message.  And  between  her  convulsive  fingers 
she  heard  the  old  servant  babbling  on.  .  .  . 


44  THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

No,  after  that,  she  could  not  bear  to  look  him 
in  the  face ! 

Panic  seized  her.  It  grew  upon  her  as  she 
lay  quiescent,  enduring  the  ministrations  of 
sympathisers  who  would  have  scorned  to  touch 
her  if  they  had  known.  Barnaby  had  not 
spoken.  He  had  not  said  to  them,  "She  is  an 
impostor. ' '  He  was  letting  them  pity  her,  han- 
dle her  gently  .  .  .  till  to-morrow. 

They  had  given  her  something  to  make  her 
sleep,  but  the  draught  was  impotent;  instead 
of  soothing,  it  was  exciting  a  strange  confusion 
in  her  head.  She  got  out  of  bed  at  last,  hearing 
nothing  but  somewhere  in  her  room  the  heavy 
breathing  of  a  dozing  watcher.  Slowly  at  first, 
and  then  quicker,  as  the  impulse  took  hold  of 
her,  she  began  struggling  into  her  clothes. 
She  must  go,  she  must  go;  she  could  not  stay 
in  this  house. 

Driven  by  her  panic,  that  could  not  think, 
could  not  reason,  she  set  her  desperate  foot 
on  the  stair. 

The  lights  were  not  out  in  the  hall  below; 
they  shimmered  faintly  as  she  passed  like  a 
shadow  towards  the  door.  If  someone  should 
come — !  Feverishly  she  tried  to  undo  the 
bar;  the  latch  was  very  heavy.  Her  heart 
beat  so  loud  that  she  was  deaf  to  all  other 
noises. 


45 

She  did  not  know  that  she  was  not  alone  till 
a  hand  was  laid  on  her  shoulder. 

She  turned  round,  shaking  from  head  to 
foot,  leaning  against  the  door. 

"Oh,  let  me  go!"  she  cried. 

He  looked  at  her  gravely. 

"I'm  afraid  we're  neither  of  us  real,"  he 
said.  "Let's  try  not  to  scare  each  other. 
.  .  .  They  tell  me  that  you're  my  widow." 

She  turned  her  face  from  him. 

"Don't  look  at  me.  Oh,  don't  look  at  me! 
Let  me  go,"  she  repeated  wildly. 

His  fingers  closed  over  hers,  still  fumbling 
at  the  bar. 

"I  don't  think  I  can  do  that,"  he  said. 
"The  doctor  blames  me  for  frightening  you 
out  of  your  life.  He'd  hold  me  responsible  if 
I  let  you  rush  out  of  my  house  in  the  middle 
of  the  night  like  this.  If  you  don't  mind  I'll 
ask  you  not  to  make  me  out  a  worse  fool  than 
I've  been  already.  And — you  aren't  going  to 
faint  again,  are  you?  Sit  down  a  minute — " 

His  arm  went  round  her  quickly;  he  had 
unloosed  her  hands  from  the  door,  and  put  her 
into  a  chair  by  the  fire,  before  she  was  sure 
that  she  had  not  fainted.  She  leant  her  whirl- 
ing head  against  the  packed  red  cushions. 

"They  gave  me  something  to  make  me 
sleep.  .  .  ."  she  murmured. 


46  THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

He  stood  a  little  way  off  on  the  hearthrug, 
watching  her.  Kit,  the  terrier,  lay  down 
suddenly  between  them,  as  if  it  had  him  safe. 

"How  did  you  know  mel"  he  said  abruptly. 

"There  is  a  picture  of  you,"  she  said; 
"and  I — thought  of  you  so  often." 

The  man  who  had  been  dismissed  so  lightly 
from  his  world  looked  down  with  a  queer 
expression.  He  could  not  doubt  the  utter 
unconsciousness  in  the  tired  young  voice.  She 
had  nothing  to  hope  for.  She  was  being 
judged. 

"In  the  name  of  Heaven,  why — ?"  he  burst 
out,  checking  himself  too  late,  for  the  girl  stood 
up  and  faced  him,  calling  up  all  her  courage. 

"Because  I  am  a  shameless  wretch,"  she 
cried  unsteadily.  "A  liar  and  an  impostor. 
.  .  .  You  don't  ask  a  thief  why  he  has 
robbed  you.  You  send  him  to  prison.  .  .  . 
You  don't  laugh  at  him.  .  .  ." 

"You  child!"  said  Barnaby. 

The  strange,  kind  note  in  his  voice  broke 
down  her  desperation.  Somehow,  she  found 
herself  stammering  out  the  story  of  her 
Southern  childhood;  the  brave  old  family 
ruined  by  the  war;  the  last  of  them  dying,. the 
last  friend  gone,  and  she  left  undefended, 
to  fight  for  herself  in  the  world.  Not  strong 
enough  to  nurse  the  sick,  not  hard  enough 


47 

to  win  her  way  in  business;  driven  to  try 
if  she  could  live  by  her  one  poor  gift  of 
acting; — what  could  she  do  but  catch  at  the 
happy-go-lucky  kindness  that  had  flung  salva- 
tion to  her? 

"I  could  have  died  .  .  ."  she  said,  scorn- 
ing herself;  "but  I  ...  came." 

"Hush!"  said  the  man  softly,  all  at  once, 
turning  round  to  meet  interruption.  The 
doctor  was  coming  downstairs,  deliberately,  as 
became  an  all-wise  and  elderly  dictator,  peer- 
ing short-sightedly  into  the  hall  below. 

"Bless  my  soul!"  he  said.  "Barnaby,  you 
villain,  she's  not  fit  to  be  talking  to  you. 
I  warned  the  servants  it  was  as  much  as  their 
lives  were  worth  to  let  you  go  near  her ; — and 
look  at  this!" 

He  shook  his  head  at  them  both,  but  relented, 
with  his  fingers  on  Susan's  pulse.  His  pro- 
fessional knowledge  of  woman  mitigated  his- 
surprise  at  her  quick  recovery.  Some  women 
could  bear  anything,  after  the  first  shock  of 
pain  or  joy. 

"Good,"  he  said.  "Since  you're  awaker 
and  in  your  right  mind,  which  I  had  hardly 
dared  to  hope  for, — I'll  send  you  up  to  Lady 
Henrietta.  She  has  been  calling  for  you.  Just 
sit  beside  her,  and  tell  her  very  quietly,  over 
and  over  again,  how  Barnaby  looks,  and  all 


48  THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

that.  I  can't  risk  her  seeing  him  yet; — her 
age  isn't  so  elastic, — and  nothing  will  satisfy 
her  but  you." 

Instinctively  the  girl  moved  to  obey,  and 
stopped.  Would  Barnaby  let  her  go  to  his 
mother?  As  far  as  she  could  understand — it 
was  still  stranger  than  a  dream — he  had  not 
yet  proclaimed  her  an  impostor.  But  surely 
the  time  was  come. 

''Oh,"  said  the  doctor,  following  her  look; 
"your  husband  must  do  without  you." 

And  then  Barnaby  spoke. 

"  You  're  a  bit  hard  on  us,  doctor,"  he  said. 
"We  had  a  lot  to  say  to  each  other.  But  my 
wife  and  I  can  finish  our  talk  to-morrow." — 
His  voice,  as  he  turned  to  her,  lost  its 
humorous  note  and  became  grave.  "Go  up 
to  my  mother, — please." 

She  went.  The  doctor  watched  her  go,  and, 
shaking  off  a  certain  perplexity,  addressed  him- 
self to  the  younger  man.  Old  friend  of  the 
family  that  he  was,  his  gruff  manner  poorly 
hid  his  emotion. 

"Good  heavens,  man!"  he  said.  "I  can't 
get  accustomed  to  you.  Shake  hands  again, 
will  you?  I  want  to  feel  positive  you  are  not 
a  spook." 

"What  about  my  mother?"  asked  Barnaby. 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN  49 

He  too  had  been  watching  the  girl  go  slowly 
up  the  stairs. 

"She'll  be  all  right,  if  we  can  keep  her 
quiet,"  said  the  doctor  cheerfully.  "But 
she  can't  afford  to  have  any  more  shocks.  Her 
heart  is  bad.  You  didn't  know  that,  of  course. 
She  is  a  courageous  lady,  and  has  taken  all  your 
vagaries  gallantly  up  to  now,  but  this  has  been 
a  bit  too  sudden.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  your 
wife's  collapse  distracting  her  attention  for 
the  moment,  taking  her  mind  off  the  greater 
shock — " 

He  broke  off  there. 

"  How  the  devil  was  I  to  know?"  burst  out 
the  other  man.  "I  had  no  notion  that  I  was 
dead." 

"Hadn't  you  heard — ?" 

"How  should  I?  Look  here,  doctor,  I 
haven't  been  sulking  in  civilisation;  racketing 
in  cities.  I've  been  roughing  it,  going  up  and 
down  in  the  earth. — There  wasn't  much  use 
in  writing  letters.  I  told  my  mother  I  would 
turn  up  again  some  day,  and  she  wasn't  to  be 
surprised.  I  did  send  her  a  line,  now  and  then, 
the  last  of  them  a  greasy  scrawl  in  a  mining 
camp,  where  there  was  one  bit  of  paper  among 
the  lot  of  us,  and  I  won  it.  She  can't  have 
got  that.  .  .  .  When  I  had  worked  the  mad- 


50  THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

ness  out  of  my  blood — some  fellows  can't 
manage  that,  it  takes  them  all  their  lives — I 
had  a  fancy  to  come  home  and  walk  into  the  old 
place  as  if  I  had  never  left  it.  ...  It's 
simple  enough — I" 

He  was  bending  forward,  stammering  a  little 
in  his  excitement.  Suddenly  he  laughed. 

"By  George!"  he  said.  "So  that  was 
why  the  porters  fled  from  me  at  John  o' 
Gaunt!" 

The  old  man  surveyed  him  anxiously,  wiping 
his  glasses. 

Often  one  heard  of  men  who,  seized  by  a 
thirst  for  adventure  in  the  rough,  or  unbalanced 
by  passion  and  disappointment,  had  thrown 
up  everything  familiar  and  dropped  out,  to 
savour  the  hard  realities  of  life.  Sometimes 
they  reappeared,  sometimes  only  peculiar 
stories  drifted  to  their  old  set  about  them,  and 
those  who  might  know  were  dumb.  He  felt  a 
most  irrational  alarm,  an  impulse  to  hold  fast 
to  this  prodigal. 

"You'll  not  vanish  again?"  he  said  hastily. 
"You  won't  want  to  roam  in  search  of  ad- 
ventures now  you  have  a  wife  to  take  care 
of." 

Barnaby  stretched  out  for  a  cigarette  and  lit 
it.  There  had  always  been  a  box  of  them 
in  one  corner  of  the  chimney-piece.  It  did  not 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN  51 

strike  him  as  odd  that  he  should  find  them 
there. 

''Have  a  smoke,  doctor,"  he  said.  "It'll 
steady  your  nerves  a  bit.  .  .  .  Yes,  I'm 
sobered. ' ' 

He  halted  a  minute,  and  the  terrier  at  his 
feet,  remembering  an  old  trick  he  had  taught 
her,  sprang  up  and  blew  out  the  match.  As  he 
stooped  to  caress  her,  she  began  licking  him 
furiously.  There  had  been  some  other  trick, 
but  she  had  forgotten  that.  She  made  a 
clumsy  effort  to  keep  his  attention  by  crossing 
her  paws  and  waving  them,  which  was  how  it 
had  begun.  .  .  . 

"Good  dog,"  he  said,  and  she  dropped  at 
his  feet,  proud  of  her  cleverness,  though 
grudging  his  notice  to  the  doctor. 

"You're  right  there,"  he  went  on,  as  if  the 
thought  amused  him.  "A  man  is  a  fool  to  go 
tramping  over  the  world,  searching  for  adven- 
tures, when  they  come  to  him  on  his  own 
hearth. ' ' 

Lady  Henrietta  lay  propped  high  with 
pillows,  talking  fast. 

"I  want  Susan!"  she  complained.  "Bring 
me  Susan.  The  doctor  shan't  put  me  off  with 
his  opiates.  I  can't  trust  any  of  you  but 
Susan. ' ' 


52  THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

And  the  girl  came  faltering  into  the  room. 

Lady  Henrietta  caught  her  hand,  nipping  it 
tight  in  hers. 

"Susan,  my  child/'  she  said.  "What  a 
little  cold  hand  you've  got!  They're  hushing 
me  as  if  I  was  a  lunatic,  humouring  me  with 
tales.  And  my  heart's  so  funny.  I  can  feel  it 
misbehaving.  ...  I  shall  certainly  die  if 
they  make  me  angry.  Come  here,  closer.  I 
want  to  ask  you — you  won't  tell  me  comfortable 
lies. — Has  Barnaby  come  back?" 

"He  has  come  back,"  said  Susan. 

"Are  you  deceiving  me?"  whispered  Lady 
Henrietta.  "Are  you  in  league  with  the  doc- 
tor?— I  sent  old  Dawson  out  there,  you  know, 
and  he  said  the  report  was  true.  .  .  .  He 
saw  the  boy's  grave.  He  put  up  a  stone. 
.  .  .  And  the  lawyers  came  croaking  to- 
gether like  ravens,  and  swore  there  wasn't  a 
scrap  of  doubt.  .  .  .  And  Eackham  stepped 
into  his  shoes,  and  I  made  them  search  for  you 
high  and  low! — Oh!  no,  it's  not  true!  I  am 
wandering  in  my  mind.  Look  at  me.  You  and 
I  couldn't  cheat  each  other.  Let  me  see  it  in 
your  face!" 

But  Susan  could  not.  She  dropped  her  head 
over  the  hand  clasping  hers  so  fiercely,  and 
her  unstrung  nerves  gave  way;  she  could  not 
keep  from  sobbing. 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN  53 

Strangely  enough,  her  crying  seemed  to 
soothe  Lady  Henrietta. 

"Ah,  you  never  used  to  cry  like  that!"  she 
said.  "He  has  come."  She  stroked  the  girl's 
hair  with  her  other  hand. 

"I  suppose  they'll  let  me  see  him  in  the 
morning,"  she  said  rationally.  "He  will  be 
asleep  now,  poor  boy.  He  shall  come  up  to 
me  when  he  has  had  his  breakfast,  and  pour 
out  his  ridiculous  adventures.  They  must 
give  him  devilled  bacon.  Margaret,  Margaret, 
stop  snivelling,  and  remind  them  to  give  him 
devilled  bacon.  Keep  holding  my  hand,  Susan, 
and  don't  cry  so.  We  have  got  him  back." 


CHAPTEE  IV 

THE  dim  light  was  already  struggling  in 
through  the  curtains  before  Lady  Henrietta 
dropped  off  to  sleep,  quieted.  Susan  dared 
not  withdraw  her  hand.  Her  arm  grew  stiff, 
ached  awhile,  and  was  numb;  her  head  slid 
against  the  pillow,  and  her  eyes  shut  at  last. 

She  awakened  with  a  start  to  hear  Lady  Hen- 
rietta's  laugh,  weak  but  natural,  and  a  man's 
exclamation,  sharp  and  pitiful,  above  her. 

"Take  her  away,  Barnaby,  and  give  her  her 
breakfast,"  his  mother  was  ordering.  "Didn't 
you  see  her?  The  poor  child  has  been  sitting 
up  holding  my  hand  like  that  the  livelong  night. 
I  was  clean  off  my  head.  ...  I  might 
have  known  you'd  behave  like  this.  Oh,  I  can 
bear  the  sight  of  you  now;  don't  be  nervous; 
I'm  not  one  of  those  sentimental  mothers — ! 
But  since  I've  taken  to  heart  attacks  I  have 
to  be  treated  with  circumspection" — she  de- 
sisted a  minute  in  her  rapid  effort  to  disguise 
emotion: — "Barnaby,  I  am  obliged  to  you  for 
— for  her." 

"You're  fond  of  her,  are  you,  mother?"  said 
Barnaby. 

54 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN  55 

Lady  Henrietta  laughed  at  him,  amused  at 
his  queer  intonation. 

"Fond?"  she  cried.  "I  adore  her.  The 
first  minute  I  saw  her,  a  little  pale  wisp  in  her 
widow's  weeds,  I  adored  her.  She  isn't  your 
style  at  all,  you  puzzle.  You  used  to  admire 
a  more  lavish  figure.  ...  I  can't  under- 
stand it  in  the  least;  but  I'm  thankful.  And 
that  reminds  me  you  must  take  her  up  to  Lon- 
don immediately,  and  have  her  put  into  proper 
clothes." 

"Oh,  I  say — "  Barnaby  was  beginning.  She 
took  the  words  out  of  his  mouth. 

"Yes,  it's  your  business,"  she  said.  "We 
can't  have  her  going  about  in  black;  it  denies 
your  existence — !  and  you  look  like  a  battered 
scamp  yourself.  You'll  have  to  go  to  your 
tailor.  If  you  want  any  money  I'll  write  you 
a  cheque.  .  .  .  They  won't  honour  yours 
while  you're  dead.  .  .  .  Wake  her  up  now, 
and  take  her  away  to  breakfast — and  take  care 
of  her  if  you  can!" 

He  bent  down  and  touched  her  arm,  and  she 
lifted  her  head,  still  dazed,  and  stood  up  from 
her  cramped  position. 

"Run  away,"  said  Lady  Henrietta.  "Run 
away,  you  two.  I  am  going  to  wash  my  face." 

She  kissed  her  hand  to  them  as  they  went 
through  the  door,  and,  in  spite  of  herself,  her 


56  THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

lip  quivered.     She  lay  quite  still  for  a  minute, 
raging  at  herself. 

"Quiet!"  she  muttered.  "Quiet!  It's 
nothing  to  die  about,  stupid  heart!" 

Downstairs  the  servants  were  all  hovering, 
lying  in  wait,  and  watching  for  a  glimpse  of 
the  master.  Macdonald  himself  had  drawn 
two  arm-chairs  beside  a  small  table  by  the  fire, 
and  unwillingly,  but  discreetly,  took  himself 
off  and  closed  the  door  behind  him. 

"Sit  down,"  said  Barnaby  gently.  "I'll 
pour  out  your  tea.  You  must  want  it." 

She  let  him  do  as  he  would,  accepting  her 
cup  at  his  hands,  drinking  obediently,  trying  to 
eat;  patient,  but  not  at  all  understanding  him. 
The  winter  sun  streamed  in  red,  shining  in 
her  hair,  making  lights  in  its  curling  darkness ; 
it  even  lent  a  fictitious  pink  to  her  cheek  as  she 
sat,  so  soberly,  facing  the  man  in  whose  house 
she  was,  whose  ring  was  on  her  finger.  When 
she  turned  her  head  a  little  the  glimmer  died. 
Irrelevantly — why  should  the  thing  strike  him 
then? — he  likened  her  paleness  to  the  creamy 
tint  of  the  hawthorn  blossom,  warm,  and 
smoother  than  the  wintry  white  of  the  sloe. 
She  had  been  ill,  too ;  she  was  very  fragile. 

All  the  while  she  dared  hardly  glance  at  him, 
though  she  knew  that  he  was  regarding  her,  not 
with  the  righteous  wrath  of  a  swindled  Briton 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN  57 

whose  house  was  his  castle,  but  with  a  strange 
expression  that,  less  comprehensible,  was  little 
less  alarming.  The  situation  seemed  to  amuse 
him.  .  .  .  And  it  was  like  a  scene  in  a 
play ;  intimate,  domestic,  and  yet  unreal.  They 
were  obliged  to  sit  so  close  at  the  confidential 
little  table,  with  its  clinking  china,  and  its 
neighbouring  row  of  silver  dishes  keeping  warm 
in  the  fender.  .  .  .  She  had  a  wild  fancy 
that  if  she  thrust  her  hand  in  that  fire  that 
leapt  and  crackled  so  naturally  it  would  not 
burn. 

"Well,"  he  said  suddenly.  "What's  to  be 
done?" 

He  had  risen  and  come  round  to  her  side; 
the  little  delay  was  over.  They  had  finished 
breakfast.  .  .  . 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "I  am  at  your 
mercy. ' ' 

"Do  you  mind  if  I  smoke?" 

His  matter-of-fact  politeness,  as  he  waited 
with  the  cigarette  unlit  between  his  fingers, 
provoked  in  her  a  fugitive  smile. 

"There!"  he  said.  "You  are  beginning  to 
see  the  funny  side  of  it  too,  as  I  do.  A  man 
who  has  knocked  about  the  world  as  I  have 
doesn't  bluster  like  a  Pharisee  and  a  brute,  un- 
less he  is  mad, — or  angry.  What  on  earth 
could  I  do"  to  you?" 


58  THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

"Are  you  not — angry?"  she  asked  faintly. 

4 'Not  exactly,"  said  Barnaby.  "I  am  rather 
astonished  at  your  pluck.  Of  course,  it  was 
frightfully  dangerous,  and  you  have  got  us 
both  into  a  hole. — I'm  not  going  to  preach  at 
you — •" 

He  hesitated  a  little. 

1 1  You  know, ' '  he  said.  ' '  I  'm  an  awfully  pru- 
dent chap,  but  once  or  twice  in  my  life  I  have 
lost  my  head.  When  I  went  to  America  three 
years  ago,  I  was  only  fit  to  be  clapped  into  a 
strait-waistcoat.  Of  course,  I  did  the  first  mad 
thing  that  came  into  my  head." 

There  was  a  touch  of  some  old  bitterness  in 
his  voice  then,  and  a  sort  of  retrospective 
contempt. 

"It's  a  grim  fact,  that,"  he  said.  "It  can't 
be  got  over.  I  don't  know  what  possessed  me; 
— but  there  was  a  marriage." 

"She  is  very  beautiful,"  said  Susan,  uttering 
her  own  wandering  thought.  She  did  not  know 
why. 

"Who?"  said  Barnaby.  "Oh,— yes.  She 
was  like  somebody  I  knew." 

There  was  silence  between  them.  Then  the 
man  laughed. 

"It  was  one  of  those  unaccountable  acts  of 
temporary  madness,"  he  said.  "We're  all 
guilty  of  such  at  times.  Did  she  tell  you  why 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN  59 

we  fell  out?  How  she  mistook  me  for  a  sort 
of  prince  in  disguise,  and  turned  on  me  after- 
wards, as  furious  as  I  was — disillusioned! 
Don't  let's  talk  about  that.  We  have  our  own 
problem  to  consider." 

"Yes,"  said  the  girl,  catching  her  breath. 

"I  am  afraid,"  he  said  gravely,  "we  must 
keep  it  up  for  a  bit." 

"I — don't — understand,"  she  said. 

"It's  the  only  thing  to  do,"  he  said.  "Look 
at  it  fairly.  Since  the  lady  who  married  me 
sent  you  over  as  her  substitute,  she  can't  com- 
plain if  I  should  acknowledge  you  as  my  wife. 
It  injures  nobody. — Don't  mistake  me!" 

For  the  girl  had  sprung  to  her  feet,  and  was 
gazing  at  him  with  horror  in  her  eyes. 

"Wait!"  he  said.  "I'm  not  one  of  these 
talking  fellows. — Perhaps  I'm  not  putting  it 
clearly.  As  far  as  I  can  make  out,  the  doctor 
believes  another  shock  on  the  top  of  this  one 
might  possibly  kill  my  mother.  She's  not  to  be 
worried  or  contradicted.  I  can't  go  to  her 
and  tell  her,  'That  girl  you  are  so  fond  of  is 
an  impostor.  I've  turned  her  out  of  the  house/ 
seriously,  how  could  I?  And  do  you  imagine 
she'd  be  contented  with  any  excuse  I  could 
make  to  her  for  your  disappearance?  I  can't 
risk  it.  You  wouldn't  want  me  to  risk  it. 
Come,  you  owe  her  a  little  consideration — !" 


60  THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

"Oh— !"  she  cried.  "Yes"— but  still  she 
trembled. 

Barnaby  smiled  down  on  her  encouragingly. 
Apparently, — after  that  one  quick  word  that 
had  hushed  her  outcry, — he  was  unconscious 
of  misconstruction. 

" Besides,"  he  said,  "there  will  be  row 
enough  in  the  papers  over  my  reappearance. 
I  couldn't  stand  them  getting  hold  of  this. 
Good  Lord!  It  would  make  us  a  laughing- 
stock." 

"I  am — sorry,"  she  said,  in  a  broken  voice. 
Barnaby  dropped  his  own. 

"Don't  be  sorry,"  he  said.  "Be  a  brave 
girl,  and  let's  keep  it  to  ourselves." 

Her  heart  jumped  and  stood  still.  She 
looked  at  him  like  some  wild  thing  caught 
in  a  trap,  without  hope  or  help,  crying  its  utter- 
most defiance. 

And  the  man  understood.  His  eyes  looked 
straight  into  hers,  blue  and  earnest,  no  longer 
careless. 

"If  I  trust  you,"  he  said,  "you  must  trust 
my  honour.  Please  understand  that  I  am 
a  gentleman.  We'll  play  our  farce  to  stalls 
and  the  gallery,  and  when  the  curtain  is  down 
we'll  treat  each  other  with  the  most  pro- 
found respect." 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN  61 

She  tried  to  speak  and  could  not.  His  voice 
softened. 

"There's  nothing  else  to  be  done,"  he  said. 
"It  won't  be  so  hard  on  you; — you're  an  ac- 
tress. And  we'll  find  a  way  out,  somehow. 
Perhaps,  in  a  month  or  two,  I  can  manage  to 
have  important  business  in  America — " 

She  caught  at  that. 

"And  take  me  with  you  and  drop  me  some- 
where— ?"  she  suggested. 

"Take  you  with  me  and  drop  you  some- 
where?" he  repeated.  "Exactly.  We  must 
think  it  over." 

"I  could  get  killed  in  a  railway  accident — 
anything!"  she  said,  in  an  eager,  breathless 
voice. 

"Of  course  you  could,"  he  said  kindly,  not 
smiling, — "There,  that's  settled.  To  my 
mother,  and  all  outsiders,  we'll  be  the  most 
ordinary  couple;  but  in  private  it  shall  be  Sir 
and  Madam.  Shake  hands  on  it,  and  promise 
me  you'll  play  up." 

He  took  her  hands,  the  one  with  his  ring  on, 
the  other  bare.  And  Susan  looked  up  at  him, 
and  was  not  afraid  any  more.  She  felt  safe, 
and  yet  reckless ; — almost  as  if  she  did  not  care 
at  all  how  it  ended,  as  if  nothing  were  too  dan- 
gerous, too  adventurous  for  her  to  promise 
him. 


62  THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

"Eight,"  he  said.  "And  it's  comedy,  not 
tragedy,  we're  playing.  We  mustn't  forget 
that." 

"No,"  she  said  uncertainly;  but  she  was 
not  so  sure. 

"And  now  I'm  going  round  to  the  stables," 
he  said,  changing  his  tone.  But  he  turned  back 
again  on  his  way  to  the  door. 

"What  am  I  to  call  you?"  he  asked.  "The 
other  lady  had  a  string  of  fine-sounding  names. 
Which  of  them  do  you  go  by  1 " 

She  coloured.  His  question  smote  her  with 
the  strangeness  of  their  compact. 

"Only  one,"  she  said,  "and  that  was  my 
own.  I  asked  your  mother  to  call  me  Susan." 

"Susan,"  he  said  to  himself.  "Susan. 
.  .  .  I'll  remember.  I  didn't  know  what  to 
do  about  that  last  night." 

She  took  one  impetuous  step  towards  him 
as  he  was  going  out. 

"How  good  you  are  to  me,"  she  cried  un- 
steadily. "Oh,  how  good  you  are!" 

But  Barnaby  shook  his  head. 

"Poor  child,"  he  said  briefly.  "I  hope 
you'll  always  think  I  was  good  to  you." 

And  he  went  out  of  the  house  whistling  to 
himself. 

"What  shocking  writing!"  said  Lady  Hen- 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN  63 

rietta,  "and  how  blotted!  Who's  your  illiter- 
ate correspondent?" 

Barnaby  had  stuffed  his  letter  into  his  breast- 
pocket as  he  walked  across  the  room. 

"Julia,"  he  said  shortly. 

As  if  upon  second  thoughts,  he  felt  for  it 
again,  pulled  it  out,  and  tossed  it  into  the  fire. 
Its  agitated,  irregular  lines  started  out  black 
on  the  burning  pages.  Susan,  who  was  sitting 
on  the  velvet  curb,  turned  away  her  face  that 
she  might  not  read. 

Lady  Henrietta,  frail  but  indomitable, 
throned  upon  her  sofa,  eyed  her  son  jealously. 

"How  did  she  know  so  quickly?"  she 
asked. 

"She  heard  it  from  somebody,  I  suppose," 
said  Barnaby.  "Why,  mother,  do  you  imagine 
a  real  live  ghost  can  visit  Leicestershire  with- 
out the  whole  country  hearing?  .  .  .  She 
wants  me  to  go  over  and  show  myself." 

"You're  not  going?" — her  tone  was  sharp. 

"No,"  he  said.  "I'll  tell  her  I  am  under 
contract  to  exhibit  myself  exclusively  at  a  mu- 
sic-hall.— And  besides,  I  have  to  run  up  to  Lon- 
don. I  want  to  give  old  Dawson  the  fright  he 
deserves.  He  must  have  been  in  a  frantic 
hurry  to  wipe  me  out  of  his  books.  What  on 
earth  made  you  choose  him  to  hunt  for 
me?" 


64  THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

"Take  Susan  with  you/'  said  Lady  Hen- 
rietta. "Go  with  him,  my  child,  and  don't  let 
him  out  of  your  sight." 

"I  don't  think  she  would  like  it,"  said 
Barnaby,  doubtfully,  but  his  mother  was  not 
to  be  gainsaid.  It  was  almost  as  if  the  mention 
of  Julia  had  revived  a  vague  apprehension  in 
her,  as  if  she  were  afraid  to  let  him  go  by  him- 
self. He  submitted,  laughing. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "if  you'll  lend  her  your  fur 
coat  I'll  wrap  her  in  that  and  take  her.  We'll 
go  up  in  the  morning  and  come  down  at  five ; — 
and  she  can  amuse  herself  getting  clothes." 

He  bent  down  to  Susan. 

"If  you  don't  mind,"  he  said,  half  in  a 
whisper;  his  tone  was  apologetic.  "I  think 
you  had  better  come." 

And  so  they  went  up  together. 

In  the  train  he  supplied  her  with  an  armful 
of  picture  papers,  and  she  studied  them 
gravely,  hidden  from  him  behind  their  out- 
stretched pages,  till  they  reached  London,  when 
she  had  to  put  down  her  screen.  Once  only  he 
interrupted  her. 

"Look  at  that,"  he  said. 

The  train  was  swinging  on,  making  up  time 
between  Kettering  and  Luton;  the  letters 
danced  as  he  held  out  his  open  newspaper, 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN  65 

with  a  finger  on  the  place.  Its  heading  stared 
at  her — "A  LEICESTEESHIKE  BOMANCE." 

"That,"  said  Barnaby,  and  his  eyes  twinkled 
— he  had  put  away  seriousness — "is  all  about 
you  and  me." 

She  did  not  see  any  more  pictures  after  that, 
only  bits  of  what  she  had  read  before  he  took 
back  his  paper  and,  turning  over  the  crackling 
sheet,  settled  into  his  corner.  Whatever  she 
tried  to  look  at,  she  saw  only  the  printed 
column  proclaiming  the  dramatic  return  of  a 
well-known  sportsman  supposed  to  be  dead; 
and  at  the  bottom,  where  his  thumb  had 
pressed  the  paper,  a  touching  reference  to  the 
subject's  beautiful  American  wife.  .  .  . 

At  St.  Pancras  he  put  her  carefully  into  a 
hansom  and  got  in  beside  her. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "this  is  our  dress  rehearsal. 
First,  we  must  see  about  your  theatrical  ward- 
robe; that's  the  expression,  isn't  it?  I'm 
going  to  take  you  to  the  woman  my  mother 
goes  to,  and  while  she  is  rigging  you  out  I'll  cut 
away  to  my  lawyers,  and  see  my  own  tailor; 
and  then  I  shall  fetch  you  and  we'll  have  lunch. 
We  shall  have  to  get  accustomed  to  each 
other." 

Driving  through  the  streets  with  him  was  cu- 
riously exhilarating.  Perhaps  her  spirit  was 
responsive  to  a  reaction.  After  all,  she  was 


66  THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

young.  ...  If  Barnaby  knew,  and  did  not 
condemn  her,  might  she  not  for  a  short  while 
dare  to  be  light-hearted — leave  the  weight  of 
it  on  his  shoulders? 

London  had  become  a  city  of  enchantment. 
She  had  passed  through  in  the  care  of  Lady 
Henrietta's  messenger,  at  the  end  of  her 
journey  over  the  sea ;  and  then  she  had  felt  tired 
and  frightened,  and  she  had  looked  listlessly 
out  of  the  cab  windows,  thinking  that  if  Fate 
betrayed  her,  she  might  find  herself  wandering 
friendless  in  these  very  streets.  Now  the  dark 
ways  were  gilded.  .  .  . 

"Here  we  are,"  said  Barnaby,  jumping  out. 
"Melisande.  She's  a  great  friend  of  ours,  but 
she  ruined  herself  racing,  and  started  the  shop 
as  a  different  kind  of  gamble.  Let's  go  up." 

In  the  show-room  upstairs  two  or  three 
haughty  ladies  were  trailing  up  and  down, 
on  view.  The  customers  were  not  allowed  to 
touch  them;  these  sat  round  the  room  on  the 
sun-faded  yellow  cushions,  gazing  at  the 
models  as  if  they  were  made  of  wax. 

"Melisande  is  uncommonly  sharp,"  said 
Barnaby.  He  had  walked  in  boldly  and  given 
his  name  to  the  presiding  genius,  who  had  sim- 
ply glanced  and  vanished.  "Do  you  see  these 
creatures  sweeping  to  and  fro?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  girl.    "Poor  things;  they 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN  67 

look  very  cross.  I  suppose  they  are  dreadfully 
ill  paid?" 

Barnaby  smothered  an  irreverent  laugh. 

"Paid?"  he  said.  "Not  a  farthing.  She  in- 
troduces them  in  the  season,  and,  in  return, 
they  have  to  act  as  dummies.  They  hate  it; 
but  she  knows  how  to  drive  a  bargain.  It's 
a  fine  advertisement.  Half  the  world  comes 
to  stare  at  the  beauties — it's  funnier  than  a 
picture  gallery.  And,  of  course,  the  pull  of 
being  taken  up  by  Melisande  in  her  society 
capacity  is  enormous." 

"Who  are  they?"  asked  Susan,  puzzled. 

"Oh,  heiresses,  of  sorts.  They  used  to  be 
whisked  away  in  their  own  motors  at  six 
o'clock.  I  daresay  they  are  still,"  said  Bar- 
naby. "Here  she  is." 

An  inner  door  flew  open,  and  a  stout  woman 
with  dark  hair  and  clever,  tired  eyes,  artistic- 
ally blacked,  appeared.  She  ran  up  to  Bar- 
naby and  shook  him,  then  let  him  go,  and  in- 
spected him  at  all  angles,  with  her  head  on  one 
side  as  if  he  were  a  Paris  model. 

"Barnaby!"  she  screamed.  "It  is  really 
Barnaby.  You  lunatic,  I  thought  you  were 
dead  and  buried." 

"They  all  thought  that,"  said  Barnaby. 
"It's  a  bit  rough  on  me." 

"Let  me  pinch  you  again!"  she  said.    "I 


68  THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

can't  have  you  in  here  if  you're  not  alive.  It's 
against  all  my  rules,  and  customers  are  so 
timid.  Of  course,  as  a  ghost  you  might  be  very 
useful.  Make  the  brutes  pay  up!" 

''What  an  eye  to  business  I"  he  said,  endur- 
ing her  inspection. 

"My  dear  man,  I  am  in  the  workhouse!  My 
friends  insist  on  patronising  me,  and  ordering 
all  kinds  of  magnificence,  and  then  they  go  away 
imagining  they  have  done  me  a  kindness.  I 
never  dine  out  without  meeting  at  least  one 
frock  that's  a  bad  debt,  and  you  can't  be  bril- 
liant when  you  are  being  eclipsed  by  a  wretch 
opposite  out  of  your  own  pocket.  But  what 
do  you  want?  I  can't  come  out  to  lunch. 
I  am  rushed  to  death.  There's  an  awful  old 
Eussian  princess  in  there  I  can't  get  rid  of. 
She  says  she  wants  to  learn  the  trade,  and  I 
daren't  leave  her  with  my  designs.  I  can't 
make  out  whether  she's  only  a  Nihilist  or  a 
kleptomaniac. ' ' 

"I  want  to  put  my  wife  in  your  hands,"  said 
Barnaby.  "I'll  come  for  her  at  two.  Can 
you  burn  all  that  crape,  and  dress  her  in  some- 
thing sensible?" 

Melisande  screamed  again,  fixing  her  eyes 
for  the  first  time  on  Susan. 

"Is  it  a  joke,"  she  said,  "or  have  you  been 
playing  fast  and  loose  with  other  people?" 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN  69 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  said 
Barnaby,  but  his  eyes  hardened.  She  glanced 
at  his  face,  subduing  her  voice  a  little. 

"I  have  never  been  paid,"  she  said,  "for 
an  outfit  of  the  most  expensive  mourning. 
The  day  after  we  read  of  your — departure  in 
the  papers,  Julia  Kelly  came  in  here  and  asked 
what  was  the  proper  thing  to  wear  when  you 
lost  your — love.  I  told  her  it  varied.  If  the 
man  hadn't  proposed  black  would  look  like  an 
affectation.  I  suggested  mauve  as  harmlessly- 
sentimental.  And  she  said,  'But  if  he  were 
practically  your  husband?'  and  I  said,  of 
course,  practically  widow's  mourning,  but  not 
a  cap.  And  she  wore  it.  .  .  ." 

He  moved  restlessly  under  her  detaining 
hand  on  his  sleeve.  "I'm  betraying  no  con- 
fidences," she  said.  "It's  a  matter  of  common 
knowledge. — How  long,  in  the  name  of  good- 
ness, have  you  been  married!  Who  is  sheTy 

"Two  or  three  years,"  he  said.  She  was 
still  holding  on  to  his  coat. 

"Wait,"  she  said.  "Wait.  Oh,  you  are  as% 
mad  as  ever.  How  do  you  want  her  dressed1?' 
She  looks  awfully  young,  poor  child." 

But  Barnaby  had  made  his  escape. 

An  hour  later  Susan  looked  at  herself  in  the 
long  mirrors  that  were  all  round  her,  and  did 


70  THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

not    know   herself    any    longer,    she    was    so 
changed. 

She  had  grown  used  to  the  deep  black  gar- 
ments that  seemed  a  part  of  her  life.  Far  off 
and  dimly  she  remembered  the  old  family  law- 
yer in  shocked  consultation  with  her  nurses, 
his  old-fashioned  anxiety  that  when  she  was 
strong  enough  to  travel  she  should  be  fittingly 
attired,  and  do  honour  to  her  sad  estate.  .  .  . 

A  door  opened  at  the  other  end  of  the  room, 
and  she  saw  Barnaby  in  the  mirror,  saw  him 
standing  petrified  on  the  threshold  till  Meli- 
sande's  laugh  called  him  to  his  senses. 

"Do  you  like  her?"  said  she.  Susan  did  not 
hear  what  he  said.  But  in  the  mirror  he  came 
towards  her,  and  she  turned  round  to  meet 
him  shyly. 

"Take  her  away,  then,"  said  Melisande. 
"Buy  a  shilling's-worth  of  violets  and  stick 
them  in  her  coat;  it's  all  that's  lacking.  I'll 
send  down  a  trunk  full  of  oddments  with  you 
to-night. — And  give  my  compliments  to  Julia 
when  you  see  her.  'To  account  rendered,'  you 
can  murmur  in  her  ear. ' ' 

Her  malicious  laugh  pursued  them  a  little 
way  down  the  stairs.  They  came  out  into  the 
street  and  walked  along  side  by  side. 

"I  went  to  see  Dawson,"  said  Barnaby 
suddenly.  "Burst  into  his  office,  meaning 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN  71 

to  scare  the  old  jackass  out  of  his  wits.  He — 
he  turned  the  tables  on  me.  Made  me  feel  a 
brute. ' ' 

"How!"  asked  Susan. 

He  did  not  explain  at  once,  engaged  in  mak- 
ing a  way  for  her  on  the  pavement.  Then  he 
answered  briefly. 

' i  He  told  me  how  he  had  found  you. ' ' 

His  tone,  angry  as  it  was,  warmed  her 
soul. 

"But, — it  was  not  your  business, "  she  said, 
in  a  low  voice.  "It  had  nothing  to  do  with 
you. ' ' 

"I  couldn't  tell  him  that,"  said  Barnaby. 
"Lord,  how  he  went  for  me,  poor  old  chap — ! 
Spared  me  nothing.  Said  I  could  never  make  it 
up  to  you.  .  .  .  It's  ridiculous,  isn't  it? 
But  if  you'd  heard  him  attacking  me! — I  had 
to  promise  him  I  would  try." 

He  was  walking  on  beside  her,  so  close  that 
his  arm  brushed  hers,  his  long  strides  falling 
in  with  her  little  steps.  And  he  was  looking 
down  on  her  with  a  sort  of  raging  kindness. 

"You  poor  little  girl!"  he  said. 

They  went  on  for  awhile  in  silence,  and  then 
Barnaby  stopped  in  his  absent-minded  prog- 
ress. His  good-humour  was  back,  and  the  joke 
of  this  expedition  was  again  uppermost  in  his 
head.  He  pointed  with  his  stick  at  a  strange 


72  THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

and  wonderful  work  of  art  in  a  milliner's  win- 
dow. 

"Let's  go  in  here  and  buy  some  of  these 
hats,"  he  said. 

All  her  life  Susan  remembered  that  day  with 
him.  It  was  all  so  absurd,  so  simple.  That 
strange  town,  London,  was  always  to  her  the 
place  where  he  and  she  made  acquaintance, 
playing  to  ignorant  audiences  their  game  of 
Let's  Pretend.  She  began  to  know  him; — the 
way  he  walked,  swinging  his  shoulders,  stopping 
short  when  a  sight  amused  him;  his  whimsical 
earnestness  over  little  things,  and  the  lines  that 
came  round  his  mouth  when  he  smiled.  .  .  . 

There  were  horses  being  put  into  the  train 
when  they  arrived  at  St.  Pancras.  The  grooms 
in  charge  of  them  were  leading  them  gingerly 
through  the  people,  past  the  lighted  bookstall, 
persuading  them  up  the  gangways  into  their 
boxes.  There  was  a  small  commotion  as  one 
of  them,  snorting,  refused  to  step  on  the 
slanting  boards.  Tugging  and  shouting  at  him 
made  him  worse;  he  began  to  plunge,  scatter- 
ing the  onlookers  and  the  porters  smiting  his 
flanks. 

"Hi!  you  infernal  idiots  .  .  ."  said  Bar- 
naby.  "Back  him  in." 

He  went  over  to  the  horse  himself,  and  took 
hold  of  his  bridle,  turned  him  round,  and 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN  73 

walked  him  in  like  a  lamb.  .Then,  as  the  porters 
clapped  shut  the  side  of  the  horse-box,  he 
waited  to  ask  whose  hunters  were  going  down. 

Susan,  lingering  a  little  way  apart,  saw  a  big 
man  with  a  cigar  in  his  mouth  spin  round  and 
seize  him.  Two  or  three  more  shot  out  of 
the  throng  and  hurled  themselves  upon  him, 
wringing  his  hand. 

"It's  Barnaby  himself,"  they  shouted. 
"Barnaby  himself!" 

They  crowded  him  up  the  platform,  a  noisy 
escort,  hiding  their  feelings  under  boisterous 
chaff;  Meltonians,  old  acquaintances.  .  .  . 
They  passed  by  Susan,  gossiping  hard. 

All  at  once  Barnaby  broke  loose  from  them, 
turning  back.  "Great  Joseph!"  he  said. 
"I've  lost  my  wife!" 

What  if  he  had?  What  if  she  had  cut  the 
tangle,  had  slipped  when  his  back  was  turned 
into  one  of  these  moving  trains,  and  passed  out 
of  his  life,  out  of  the  bustle  into  the  throbbing 
darkness,  like  a  match  that  had  been  lit  and 
extinguished,  leaving  no  trace? 

She  watched  him  hurrying  back,  looking  for 
her;  saw  his  quick  glance  along  a  glimmering 
line  of  carriages  passing  him  on  his  left,  and 
guessed  his  apprehension.  Soon  he  was  bear- 
ing down  on  her,  charging  through  the  press, 
and  had  pulled  her  hand  through  his  arm. 


74  THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

"It  was  too  bad,  wasn't  it?"  he  said.  "I'm 
awfully  sorry, — Susan." 

There  was  a  real  relief  in  his  voice.  She 
felt  it,  wondering.  Was  he  so  glad  to  find  her 
still  his  prisoner,  his  accomplice? 

"Did  you  think,"  she  said,  and  in  her  own 
voice  laughter  struggled  with  a  strange  in- 
clination to  tears, — * '  that  I  had  run  away  ? ' ' 

"Come  on,"  he  said  cheerfully,  not  replying. 
"Hold  on  to  me.  Those  chaps  are  looking  at 
us." 

He  marched  her  to  his  friends,  who  had 
halted  in  a  body  when  he  dashed  back,  and 
waited,  grinning  sympathetically,  for  his  re- 
turn. 

"Here  is  my  wife,"  he  said.  "I  brought  her 
up  to  town  to  get  rid  of  her  widow's  weeds." 

They  shook  hands  with  her  solemnly,  a  kind 
gravity  in  their  manner  to  her  subduing  them 
for  a  minute;  and  then,  as  Barnaby  settled  her 
in  the  Melton  slip,  they  hung  round  the 
carriage  door,  and  their  tongues  were  loosened. 

"Where  did  you  pick  up  these  horses? 
Are  they  part  of  your  baggage  from  another 
world?" 

Barnaby  laughed. 

"They  aren't  mine,"  he  said.  "I  brought 
nothing  back  with  me,  not  even  a  collar-stud. 
Why,  I  pawned  my  watch  in  the  States ! ' ' 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN  75 

" Wouldn't  the  ferryman  let  you  return  on 
tick?  But  you  were  mixed  up  with  them, 
Barnaby,  when  I  saw  you.  I'd  know  your 
voice  anywhere,  shouting  Woa!" 

"He's  bound  to  get  mixed  up  with  horses, 
alive  or  dead,"  said  the  big  man.  "I  tried 
to  find  out  myself  whose  cattle  they  are,  but 
the  name  is  unintelligible.  They  can't  pro- 
nounce it  down  there;  not  all  the  sneezing  and 
snarling  in  the  station  can  do  it.  I'll  bet  its 
another  of  these  wild  Austrians." 

"D'you  remember  the  three  counts  who  set 
out  on  a  slippery  day  to  ride  to  the  meet  at 
Scalford; — and  were  fetched  back  to  the  Har- 
boro',  the  three  of  them,  half  an  hour  after- 
wards, in  a  cart?" 

"Broken  ribs,  wasn't  it?"  said  Barnaby. 

"Cracked  heads,  I  fancy.  I'll  never  forget 
the  sight  it  was;  all  you  could  see  of  'em  was 
the  three  shiny  top  hats,  stove  in." 

The  lights  were  flickering  in  the  station; 
only  the  great  yellow  clock-face  shone  un- 
changeable, with  its  minute  hand  creeping  up. 
Down  below  on  the  platforms  scurrying  pas- 
sengers went  their  ways,  gathering  in  thickening 
groups  and  eddying  here  and  there  round  a  pile 
of  luggage.  Everywhere  there  was  restless- 
ness. 

Susan  leant  back  in  her  corner.    Their  end 


76  THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

of  the  platform  was  a  little  dim,  and  it  was  less 
frequented.  She  noticed  a  woman's  figure 
passing  along  the  train. 

Barnaby  was  loitering,  half  in,  half  out  of 
the  door,  absorbed  in  chatter.  They  were  ask- 
ing him  if  he  were  coming  out  with  the  Quorn, 
offering  to  lend  him  a  crock  to-morrow;  relat- 
ing the  current  news  about  men  and  horses. 
Once  the  big  man  turned  his  head  casually  as 
the  figure  that  Susan  had  noticed  passed.  His 
mouth  shaped  itself  in  a  whistle,  but  he  made 
no  remark.  Only  his  broad  back  seemed  to 
block  out  a  little  more  of  the  view. 

"It's  about  time  we  started,"  he  said. 

"What's  the  matter  down  there?"  asked 
Barnaby. 

"Oh,  I  fancied  I  saw  a  customer,"  he  said 
promptly.  "Did  you  take  your  wife  to  the 
grasping  Melisande?  You  might  have  patron- 
ised another  old  friend  in  me.  There's  a  hat 
in  the  window  I  trimmed  myself." 

"What?"  said  Barnaby. 

The  big  man  chuckled  heavily. 

"You  didn't  know  I'd  gone  in  for  millinery1?" 
he  said.  "If  you  had  had  your  eyes  about  you 
you'd  have  seen  my  establishment.  There's  a 
business  that  women  never  will  understand! 
They  haven't  got  bold  ideas;  they  are  too  fond 
of  twisting.  It  was  an  accident,  really.  I  was 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN  77 

financing  an  aunt  of  mine,  Clara  Lady  Kilgour, 
— and  the  thing  was  going  bankrupt.  I  strolled 
into  the  shop  one  morning  and  found  Clara 
weeping,  and  the  Frenchy  who  had  lured  her 
into  it  sniffing  like  a  noxious  weed  in  a  bed  of 
artificial  roses.  Just  by  way  of  cheering  her 
up  a  bit,  I  snatched  up  an  affair  the  serpent  was 
working  at — a  muddle  of  feathers  and  scraps  of 
lace. — *  You  '11  ruin  that ! '  they  wailed.  But  hey, 
presto!  I  had  found  my  vocation.  I  kicked 
out  the  bailiffs  and  took  it  over.  And  now  I 
am  running  it  as  'The  Earl  of  Kilgour,  late 
Fleur-de-lis.'  " 

The  guard  came  down  the  train,  shutting 
doors.  Barnaby's  friends  dropped  off,  tum- 
bling into  the  smoker  behind.  The  whistle 
shrilled. 

"Wouldn't  you  rather  get  in  with  them?" 
said  Susan,  in  sudden  shyness. 

"What?  that  would  never  do,"  explained 
Barnaby,  pulling  up  the  window.  "The  poor 
dear  fellows  have  left  us  religiously  to  our- 
selves." 

He  threw  a  Westminster  on  her  knee  and  took 
off  his  hat. 

"What  was  Kilgour  staring  at,  do  yon 
know?"  he  asked.  "He  seemed  rather  dis- 
turbed; didn't  want  us  to  notice." 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said. 


78  THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

Barnaby  laughed  out  loud. 

' '  We  got  on  famously, ' '  he  declared.  ' '  We  'd 
pass  muster  anywhere.  But  you  are  tired  out, 
aren't  you?  Lean  back  in  your  corner  and  go 
to  sleep." 

The  slip  carriage  was  rocking  from  side  to 
side,  and  her  head  ached  from  the  strain  and 
excitement  of  the  day.  The  same  shyness  that 
had  smitten  her  as  his  friends  left  them  made 
her  shut  her  eyes  under  his  regard.  She  rested 
her  head  on  the  stiff  padding,  listening  to  the 
thrum  of  the  engine,  wandering  in  dreams  that 
could  not  match  the  fantastic  unlikeliness  of 
what  had  befallen ;  and  all  the  while  feeling  his 
gaze  on  her. 

She  was  roused  by  the  jar  as  the  train 
stopped  at  Bedford.  The  carriage  door  was 
opened  and  closed;  they  were  no  longer  by 
themselves. 

"Barnaby!" 

Tears  were  imminent  in  the  emotional  Irish 
voice. 

"How  do  you  do,  Julia." — The  man's  tone 
was  firm  and  hard. 

"I  knew  you  were  in  the  train.  .  .  .  But 
with  these  gossiping  wretches  all  round  you ! — 
I  could  not  bear  to  meet  you  with  them.  .  .  . " 

"Don't  waken  my  wife.    She's  tired." 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN  79 

His  warning  struck  abruptly  on  her  impulsive 
murmur.  She  sat  down,  rustling,  unfastening 
the  furs  at  her  throat.  The  train  had  started 
again,  and  was  speeding  on. 

In  her  far  corner  Susan  stirred.  This  was 
the  figure  she  had  seen  in  the  distance,  the  figure 
that  Barnaby's  friend  had  tried  to  block  out 
from  his  attention.  All  Barnaby's  friends  must 
guess  how  hard  it  would  be  for  him  to  meet 
her  again,  since  he  had  once  worshipped  her. 
.  .  .  Looking  straight  into  the  flying  dark- 
ness, Susan  tried  not  to  see  his  profile  reflected 
in  it,  tried  not  to  watch  his  expression,  inscru- 
table as  it  was. 

"What  fools  we  were!"  sighed  Julia. 

"Regular  fools,"  he  said. 

The  girl  drew  a  quick  breath.  She  had 
thought  she  was  beginning  to  know  him,  and 
still  she  could  not  guess  if  he  spoke  in  irony 
or  despair.  She  raised  her  head ;  fluttered  the 
paper  on  her  knee. — They  must  not  think  that 
she  was  asleep.  And  Barnaby  looked  at  her. 

"This  is  an  old  friend  of  mine,  Susan,"  he 
said  sedately.  Julia  presented  a  pale  face  and 
shining  eyes. 

"Mrs.  Hill  must  be  quite  accustomed  to  the 
enthusiasm  of  your  friends,"  she  said.  "7 
have  been  lingering  at  St.  Pancras  since  three 


80  THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

o'clock, — somebody  told  me  you  had  been  seen 
in  a  restaurant — for  the  sake  of  travelling  back 
with  you." 

"How  good  of  you,"  said  Barnaby,  in  the 
same  constrained  way.  "We  didn't  know,  did 
we,  Susan,  that  we  had  been  spotted?" 

Julia  turned  to  him  again ;  her  speaking  eyes 
hardly  left  him. — "Not  good,"  she  said,  "only 
human. ' ' 

The  train  rocked  on,  filling  the  inevitable 
pause  with  its  throbbing.  Then  Barnaby 's 
voice  cut  into  the  silence. 

"We  don't  mind  indulging  your  human  curi- 
osity, Julia,"  he  said,  "but  why  stare  at  us  so 
hard?  We,  too,  are  only  human,  aren't  we, 
Susan?" 

"It  is  so  strange,"  said  Julia,  "to  think  of 
you  with  a  wife. ' ' 

Barnaby  bit  his  lip.  He  reddened.  Perhaps 
the  sight  of  her  had  shaken  him,  had  hit  him 
deeper  than  he  was  willing  to  betray.  Her 
emotion  at  meeting  the  man  whom  she  had 
mourned  as  dead  was  visible;  she  made  no 
attempt  to  hide  it.  Perhaps  his  own  was  the 
greater  for  being  stifled  by  his  determined 
effort  at  self-control.  He  got  up,  fiddling  with 
the  window-sash. 

"Would  you  like  this  a  bit  down?"  he  said, 
addressing  Susan.  "How  is  your  headache?" 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN  81 

Did  he  know  that  her  head  ached,  or  had  he 
addressed  her  at  random!  The  girl  felt  an 
unreasonable  anger  at  his  ostentatious  solici- 
tude. Was  he  playing  her  off  against  his  old 
love?  Did  such  bitterness  wait  behind  their 
compact?  For  the  first  time,  his  kindness  hurt 
her.  All  a  farce,  all  a  blind,  and  a  make-be- 
lieve. 


CHAPTER  V 

IN  the  morning  Barnaby  went  out  hunting. 
He  started  gaily,  in  old  clothes,  on  a  borrowed 
horse. 

"Next  time  I  die,"  he  said,  "and  they  put 
away  my  relics,  I  beg  you  all  not  to  scatter 
infernal  white  knobs  of  poison  among  them  to 
keep  away  the  moths.  I  call  it  irreverent. 
And  unless  this  horrible  smell  wears  off  I'll 
have  to  keep  to  leeward.  A  single  whiff  of  it 
would  kill  the  scent. ' ' 

He  came  in  at  dusk,  stiff  and  splashed,  but 
contented,  calling  for  tea,  and  waking  up  the 
house.  It  was  extraordinary  what  a  difference 
his  presence  made  as  he  limped  into  the  hall 
and  hung  up  his  whip.  Life  and  vigour  seemed 
to  blow  in  with  him ;  the  terriers  rushed  at  him 
dancing,  barking,  pattering  into  the  library  at 
his  heels.  Lady  Henrietta,  propped  on  her 
sofa,  gave  a  little  sharp  sigh. 

"Give  him  his  tea,  Susan, "  she  said  briskly. 
"How  did  he  carry  you,  Barnaby?  "Who  was 
out?" 

"Oh,  all  the  world  and  his  wife,"  he  said. 
"Carry  me?  He  wouldn't  have  carried  a 
grasshopper.  But  I  changed  on  to  a  chestnut 

82 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN  83 

that  Kivington  wants  to  sell.  I've  bought  him. 
Not  much  to  look  at,  but  he  goes  well  enough, 
and  I  was  so  pleased  to  feel  a  real  galloper 
under  me,  I'd  have  given  him  any  price.  .  .  . 
It's  good  to  be  here  again.  Though  my  boots 
are  as  hard  as  iron.  I  believe  I  am  lamed  for 
life.  By  the  bye,  Susan,  I've  let  you  in  for  one 
thing.  I  couldn't  help  it." 

She  looked  up,  startled,  from  her  place  by 
the  fire. 

"It's  only  to  dine  out  with  some  people  to- 
morrow night,"  he  said,  noticing  her  alarm. 
"I  couldn't  get  out  of  it,  really;  they  mobbed 
me  so." 

"Who  is  it?"  asked  Lady  Henrietta. 

"Only  the  Drakes,"  said  Barnaby. 

His  mother  nodded.  "Yes;  show  her  off  to 
your  friends ! ' '  she  said. 

She  was  in  and  out  of  Susan's  room  next 
evening  all  the  while  she  was  dressing,  and 
when  the  girl's  toilet  was  finished  she  came 
with  her  hands  full  of  jewel-cases. 

"You  can't  wear  much  to-night,"  she  said. 
"It  would  look  dressed  up.  But  a  few  pins, — 
and  a  star  or  two  to  give  you  confidence  in 
yourself.  .  .  .  My  dear,  you  don't  know 
what  a  help  it  is!  And  all  the  women  you'll 
meet  have  been  at  one  time  or  another  in  love 
with  Barnaby.  Hold  up  your  head,  and  don't 


84  THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

let  them  make  you  wretched.  Is  that  you, 
Barnaby?  I  want  you." 

Barnaby  passed  by  on  his  way  from  his  own 
room,  and  her  shrill  call  stopped  him.  His  step 
outside  sent  the  colour  into  Susan's  cheek,  and 
his  voice  came  doubtfully  through  the  door. 

1  'Yes,  mother?" 

"Come  in;  come  in.  How  shy  you  are!" 
said  she,  and  the  handle  turned. 

"You  will  tire  yourself,"  he  said,  but  she 
brushed  aside  his  remonstrance. 

"Bubbish!"  she  said.  "I  have  the  whole 
evening  to  lie  up  and  swallow  physic.  Come 
here  and  stick  these  in  for  me,  will  you? 
Margaret  is  so  clumsy." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  under  his 
breath,  as  he  bent  down,  fulfilling  his  office. — 
"The  exigencies  of  the  piece  must  excuse  me." 

"What  a  queer  way  of  apologising  for  run- 
ning a  pin  into  your  wife!"  said  his  mother 
sharply.  She  might  have  been  trusted  to  over- 
hear. He  had  straightened  himself,  and  was 
withdrawing  rather  precipitately,  when  his  eyes 
fell  on  his  own  picture  above  the  chimney-piece. 
"What  is  that  thing  doing  here?"  he  asked, 
off  his  guard. 

Lady  Henrietta  desisted  from  her  pleased 
contemplation  of  Susan  decked  out  with 
jewels. 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN  85 

"Well!"  she  said.  "Of  all  things!  Do 
you  mean  to  say  ? — It  has  been  there  ever  since 
she  came.  I  had  it  hung  there  myself  to  be 
company  for  your  heart-broken  widow. ' ' 

"Anyhow,  we'll  have  it  down  now,"  he  said 
hastily.  ' '  You  'd  rather  not  have  the  daub  glar- 
ing at  you,  wouldn't  you,  Susan?" 

Lady  Henrietta  turned  her  back  on  him. 

"Don't  mind  him,  my  dear,"  she  said. 
"We'll  keep  it." 

There  was  warmth  in  her  tone.  She 
squeezed  the  girl's  arm,  bidding  her  remember 
that  none  of  Barnaby's  old  flames  could  hold 
a  candle  to  her.  Somehow  or  other  he  had 
fallen  under  her  displeasure. 

"I'm  afraid  my  acting  doesn't  come  up  to 
yours,"  he  said,  when  they  were  shut  into  the 
motor.  "My  mother  thinks  I  am  too  un- 
demonstrative .  .  .  that  I  am  unworthy  of 
my  good  luck." 

"Don't!"  she  said. 

He  laid  his  hand  comfortingly  on  hers. 

"Look  here,  little  girl,"  he  said.  "It's  no 
use  taking  things  hard.  We  have  to  make  the 
best  of  it.  It  won't  last  forever.  .  .  .  We 
must  look  at  the  funny  side  of  it.  That's  the 
bargain. ' ' 

The  swift  drive  through  the  night  was  al- 
iready  over.  Three  men,  pushing  aside  the 


86  THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

servants,  were  slapping  Barnaby  on  the  back. 
They  bore  a  family  likeness  to  each  other,  big 
men,  with  creased  red  necks,  and  short,  rumpled 
sandy  hair. 

"Come  along  in,"  they  cried  heartily. 
"The  house  is  full  of  old  friends  wanting  to 
get  at  you, — and  nothing  but  odds  and  ends 
for  dinner." 

But  one  of  them  managed  to  lower  his  hearty 
voice  a  trifle. — "You  won't  mind  meeting  Julia 
Kelly?  She  has  asked  herself  for  the  night." 

"Who  else?"  said  Barnaby,  in  his  ordinary 
tones. 

"Kilgour  and  the  Slaters  and  Eackham  and 
the  Duchess; — and  a  few  more,"  reeled  off 
his  host,  thankfully  dropping  the  awkward 
subject  now  he  had  got  out  his  warning.  He 
rushed  them  into  the  house,  and  Susan  was 
bewildered  by  the  tumult  that  greeted  them, 
the  sea  of  unknown  faces.  Men  and  women 
alike  were  seizing  on  Barnaby  and  exclaiming. 
She  hardly  realised  that  they  were  at  the  same 
time  taking  stock  of  her.  The  three  Drakes 
stood  near  her  like  a  bodyguard,  kind  and 
stolid,  settling  into  their  usual  phlegmatic  form ; 
and  she  felt  glad  of  them. 

"Getting  on  all  right?"  said  Barnaby,  as 
she  passed  him  on  her  way  in  to  dinner,  and 
she  smiled  back  at  him. 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN  87 

He  and  she  were  not  near  each  other;  but 
once  or  twice  he  looked  her  way,  bending  his 
head  and  slewing  half  round  to  catch  a  glimpse 
of  her;  that — or  else  Lady  Henrietta's  stars, 
kept  up  her  courage.  She  listened  politely, 
not  understanding  much,  to  the  local  gossip 
running  along  the  table. 

"Have  you  picked  up  any  horses  yet, 
Barnaby?  Sims  has  one  or  two  going  up  on 
Saturday,  at  Leicester." 

"I  can  let  you  have  a  bay,  a  capital 
fencer — " 

"Oh,  you  don't  palm  off  your  roarers  on  me. 
I  heard  him  to-day,"  said  Barnaby. 

"Well,  I  don't  deny  that  he  makes  a 
noise — " 

"I  suppose  you  think  I've  been  in  the  wilds 
so  long  I  don't  know  a  horse  from  a  hedgehog!" 
said  Barnaby.  "Can  anyone  tell  me  what 
became  of  a  black  mare  I  had  four  seasons 
ago?" 

"Do  you  mean  Black  Bose?"  said  Kilgour. 

"That's  the  one.  Do  you  know  who  has 
her?" 

"I  have,"  said  Kilgour.  "I  took  her  from 
Peters.  The  fellow  couldn't  ride  her.  You 
can  have  her  back  if  you  want  her,  Barnaby; 
she  isn't  up  to  my  weight.  I  remember  you 
rode  her  at  Croxton  Park." 


88  THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

"And  won,"  said  Barnaby.  ''Want  her? 
Bather." 

Kilgour  chuckled  heavily. 

"She  isn't  as  young  as  she  was,  mind,"  he 
said.  "But  she  can  go  still.  I  suppose  you're 
not  as  keen  as  you  used  to  be  on  breaking  your 
neck?" 

"As  keen  as  ever,"  said  Barnaby,  with  con- 
viction. 

"Does  your  wife  ride?" 

The  question  sounded  maladroit;  it  was 
inconceivable  that  Barnaby  should  have  mar- 
ried a  wife  who  did  not.  His  hesitation  was 
singular  in  their  eyes ;  they  all  stopped  to  listen. 

"I  really  don't  know,"  he  said. 

In  the  general  burst  of  laughter  Susan 
caught  his  glance  of  amused  consternation. 
In  that  hard-riding  company  his  ignorance  was 
incredible.  Men,  having  a  curious  predilection 
towards  the  unsuitable  in  wives,  he  might,  after 
all,  have  committed  that  inconceivable  piece  of 
folly.  Barnaby 's  wife  might  lamentably  turn 
out  incapable  of  sitting  on  a  horse.  But  that 
Barnaby  should  not  know — ! 

It  was  while  they  were  all  laughing  at  him 
that  Susan  became  aware  of  Julia  Kelly. 

She  was  on  the  same  side  of  the  table  as 
herself,  placed  far  from  the  lion  of  the  occa- 
sion; and  was  leaning  her  elbows  on  the  table, 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN  89 

looking  full  at  Susan.  The  man  between  them 
was  sitting  back  in  his  chair  roaring  helplessly 
at  the  joke. 

"What  an  ignorant  husband,  Mrs.  Hill,"  said 
Julia,  and  her  musical  voice  vibrated  through 
the  laughter.  "Do  you  ride?" 

"I  have  ridden,"  said  Susan  quietly.  It  was 
difficult  for  her  to  blot  the  memory  of  an  en- 
counter that  the  other  woman  ignored. 

"But  not  with  him f" 

Mrs.  Drake,  springing  up,  made  diversion. 

"Why  not  have  a  steeplechase?"  she  cried. 

She  was  one  of  these  little  women,  all  skin 
and  bone,  who  cannot  bear  inaction,  and  whose 
wishes  are  carried  out. 

"Cross  country,"  she  said,  silencing  a  growl 
from  her  husband.  "You  can  ride  the  point- 
to-point  course.  We'll  send  round  and  tell 
everybody,  and  get  them  all  here  by  twelve. 
And  we'll  put  grooms  with  lanterns  to  mark 
the  jumps." 

The  men  jumped  up,  enthusiastic.  The  idea 
was  just  mad  enough  to  appeal  to  their  sporting 
instincts.  In  about  three  minutes  the  dining- 
room  was  deserted,  and  five  motors  were  hum- 
ming into  the  darkness  to  apprise  and  rally  all 
who  were  reckless  enough  to  join.  In  a  neigh- 
bourhood always  ready  for  a  frolic  there  was  no 
danger  of  the  inspiration  falling  flat. 


90  THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

Barnaby  himself  was  in  the  thick  of  it, 
mapping  out  preliminaries  with  the  other  men 
in  the  hall.  The  women  clustered  together, 
almost  hysterical  with  excitement.  And  Susan 
drifted  apart  from  the  chattering  circle,  feel- 
ing outside  it  all. 

She  heard  a  gruff  voice  in  her  ear,  and 
started.  The  tall,  gaunt,  hard-faced  Duchess 
was  standing  over  her. 

"How  are  you  getting  on?"  she  said. 

"It  is  a  little  strange  to  me,"  said  Susan. 

"But  you  are  not  moping,"  said  the  Duchess. 
"I  can  see  you  are  made  of  better  stuff.  They 
are  all  mad,  of  course,  but  nobody  will  get  hurt, 
if  that  is  what  you  are  afraid  of." 

Yes,  that  must  be  what  she  was  afraid  of, 
what  inspired  her  with  an  undefined  wretched- 
ness.' If  she  had  been  what  they  thought  her, 
surely  she  would  be  feeling  nervous.  She  was 
glad  she  had  not  made  the  mistake  of  pretend- 
ing to  be  gay. 

"I  am  an  old  friend  of  your  husband's," 
said  the  Duchess,  " — and  he  has  asked  me  to 
be  kind  to  you.  I  shan't  warn  you  to  beware 
of  Julia ;  all  the  rest  of  them  will,  if  they  haven't 
already; — but  I  don't  call  that  kindness." 

"Barnaby  asked  you  to  be  kind  to  me?"  re- 
peated Susan;  she  could  not  keep  the  wistful- 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN  91 

ness  out  of  her  voice;  she  had  been  thinking 
herself  so  utterly  forgotten. 

"  Yes.  It  isn't  the  fashion  here  for  husbands 
to  worry  about  their  wives,  but  he  is  a  bit  old- 
fashioned.  I  told  him  I'd  come  and  talk  to  the 
little  fish  out  of  water.  It  is  just  a  strange 
pond,  my  dear,  and  you'll  soon  begin  swim- 
ming." 

The  clash  of  voices  grew  more  uproarious  in 
the  hall.  A  man  put  his  head  in  and  vanished, 
looking  for  somebody.  His  brief  appearance 
made  the  contrast  between  the  excitement  out 
there  and  this  empty  room  more  emphatic. 

"I  must  get  out  of  this,"  said  the  Duchess, 
switching  her  train  as  she  rose  from  the  sofa. 
"  Kitty  will  have  to  lend  me  a  habit  and  one 
of  her  husband's  coats.  I  shall  ride.  There's 
a  brook  jump  where  there'll  be  trouble,  and 
I  want  to  see  the  fun.  You  had  better  drive 
with  Kitty.  I'll  see  to  it.  Have  you  anything 
warm  to  put  on?" 

Her  caution  was  hardly  equal  to  her  good 
nature,  and  the  clamour  in  the  hall  hardly 
drowned  her  indignant  voice  as  she  seized  on 
a  confidant  in  the  doorway. 

"I  like  her  pluck.  She's  terrified  to  death, 
of  course,  but  she  doesn't  look  woe-begone. 
[We  must  seem  a  pack  of  dangerous  lunatics.. 


92  THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

.    .    .    Where  do  these  Americans  get  their 
spirit?" 
"You  don't  read  history,  do  you,  Duchess!" 


The  man  she  had  seized  laughed  shortly, 
amused  at  her  bewildered  face. 

"Oh,"  he  said,  "we  English  are  frightfully 
cock-a-hoop  over  our  pedigrees.  We  don't 
remember  it's  they  who  are  condescending  to 
us.  There's  bluer  and  better  blood  across  the 
Atlantic  than  any  of  ours,  and  it  isn't  smirched. 
They  don't  boast.  They  don't  remind  us  of 
our  blotted  scutcheons. — We  to  talk  of  race!" 

"What  on  earth  do  you  mean,  Kilgour?" 
said  the  Duchess.  "Half  of  them  are  Huns 
and  Finns,  and  the  scum  of  Europe." 

The  big  man  was  leaning  against  the  door- 
post; his  bantering  tongue  took  on  a  sudden 
heat. 

"A  few,"  he  said.  "But  the  rest — !  Scum, 
Duchess? — We're  the  dregs.  There's  not  one 
of  our  great  families  that  isn't  mixed  with  the 
blood  of  traitors;  that  hasn't  at  one  time  or 
another  sold  its  honour  or  stained  its  sword. 
Scots  and  English,  all  that  was  best  of  us  once, 
are  there,  handing  their  valour  down.  After 
Culloden  the  country  was  drained  of  its  gentle- 
men. Why,  you  can  still  hear  the  Highland 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN  93 

tongue  in  South  Carolina.  .  .  .  They  went 
into  exile  while  we  hugged  our  estates  and 
truckled  to  an  usurper.  And  the  soul  of  a 
country  is  the  soul  of  its  heroes.  .  .  .  Oh, 
I  believe  in  race! — Let  the  rest  of  us  take  a 
pride  in  our  tarnished  titles  and  wonder  at  the 
fineness  of  strangers  who  are  descended  from 
the  men  who  lost  all  for  the  sake  of  honour 
and  loyalty  to  their  King!" 

The  Duchess  dropped  her  blunt  voice  into 
a  lower  key. 

"Poor  old  Kilgour,"  she  said.  "  You  're 
thinking  of  that  little  brute  Tillinghame  and 
his  dollar  princess." 

"Well!"  he  said,  between  his  teeth. 
"You've  only  to  look  at  them! — And  his  peo- 
ple sneer  at  her  for  aspiring  to  bear  an  illustri- 
ous title  that  began  in  dishonour,  and  has  been 
dragged  a  few  hundred  years  in  the  mud — !" 

The  Duchess  moved  away  from  the  door; 
she  had  remembered  Susan. 

"I  wish  you'd  capture  Barnaby  and  send 
him  in  to  his  wife,"  she  said.  "He  has  for- 
gotten that  she  exists.  .  .  .  I've  had  to 
make  up  a  message.  ...  I  couldn't  stand 
the  dumb  wistfulness  in  her  face.  It's  a  fool- 
hardy business." 

"I've  just  sent  for  Black  Eose,"  said  Kil- 


94  THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

gour,  in  his  ordinary  tone.  "He  was  keen  to 
ride  her."  He  raised  his  voice.  " — Here, 
Barnaby,  you're  wanted!" 

But  the  messengers  were  returning  already, 
and  strange  cars  were  dashing  up.  The  hub- 
bub was  at  its  height.  It  was  impossible  to 
win  Barnaby 's  attention.  He  turned  his  head 
impatiently  as  Kilgour  made  a  grab  at  him. 

"What  is  it  now!"  he  said.  "Oh,  don't 
bother  me,  there's  a  good  fellow.  They  want 
to  settle  how — Jim,  Jim,  is  that  you?  Have 
you  brought  the  horses?" 

He  ran  down  the  steps. 

A  clatter  of  hoofs  was  audible  in  the  dark- 
ness, and  a  groom,  riding  one  horse  and  leading 
another  pulled  up  below  the  steps,  steadying 
his  charges  as  they  flung  up  their  bewildered 
heads,  blinking,  kicking  up  the  gravel. 

"Ah,  my  beauty!"  said  Barnaby,  in  the  voice 
of  a  lover.  "Did  you  think  I  was  dead?" 

"Is  that  Black  Eose?"  called  one  of  the  men 
crowding  to  the  door.  "Wasn't  she  sold?" 

"She  was.  But  I'll  have  her  back,"  he 
shouted  up  to  them,  rubbing  the  mare's  dark 
head.  "To  the  half  of  my  kingdom  I'll  buy 
her  back!" 

The  women,  wrapped  thickly,  and  disguised 
in  furs,  were  streaming  into  the  hall.  Julia 
Kelly,  who  had  lingered  to  the  last,  and  was 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN  95 

not  yet  ready,  rushed  down  impulsively  to  his 
side. 

"Oh,  Barnaby,  is  that  Black  Eose?  Dear 
thing,  is  she  there!  Oh,  Barnaby — !" 

Her  voice  thrilled  and  sank;  she  stretched 
out  her  hand,  patting  the  mare's  neck,  rejoicing 
with  him. 

"It's  like  old  times,  isn't  it?"  he  said. 

The  night  wind  ruffled  his  bare  head,  kissed 
a  wisp  of  Julia's  lace  and  blew  it  against  him. 
She  might  have  been  forgiven  for  thinking  his 
thick  utterance  was  for  her.  The  little  scene, 
to  all  present  who  knew  their  tale,  was  ro- 
mantic. 

Kitty  Drake  looked  over  her  shoulder  in 
a  funny,  conscience-stricken  way;  the  Duchess 
was  poking  her  in  the  back,  and  at  the  same 
time  interposing  her  rugged  presence  between 
romance  and  Susan.  In  a  minute  the  girl  was 
shielded  by  an  oddly-sympathising  bevy  of 
women,  fussing  over  her  in  a  transparent  hurry 
to  see  that  she  was  wrapped  up  warm. 

The  stable  clock  behind  the  house  was  be- 
ginning to  strike,  and  the  men  who  had  been 
dining  there  had  disappeared  to  change. 
Nobody  was  measuring  the  length  of  that 
interview.  ...  At  last  Barnaby  came  in 
three  steps  at  a  time,  a  portmanteau  in  his 
arms. 


96  THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

"I  say,  Kitty;  where  can  I  go  and 
dress?" 

She  looked  at  him  severely  over  Susan's 
head. 

"Bun  in  anywhere,"  she  said,  and  he  pur- 
sued his  impetuous  way  upstairs.  Julia  reap- 
peared by  herself,  on  her  face  what  Kitty  Drake 
stigmatised  as  a  maddening  consciousness. 

"They  say  they  are  going  to  ride  in  their 
shirt-sleeves,"  she  said,  "but  that  will  hardly 
make  them  visible.  It's  nearly  pitch  dark 
outside. ' ' 

"They  are  idiots,"  said  Kitty  Drake. 
"Fancy  Gregory  calling  to  us  when  we  were 
upstairs  to  know  if  we  would  lend  them  our 
night-dresses.  I  told  him  I  was  too  thrifty." 

< « Why  not  f ' '  said  Julia.  ' '  Barnaby  can  have 
mine." 

A  blank  pause  saluted  her  speech,  and  then, 
with  one  accord,  the  women  began  to  acclaim 
the  notion  as  if  it  were  the  most  ordinary 
thing  in  the  world.  Even  Kitty,  in  her  haste 
to  dissipate  the  impression  that  Julia's  declara- 
tion might  make  on  the  girl  beside  her,  caught 
up  the  idea  and  made  it  hers.  She  flew  up  and 
down  arranging. 

"A  bit  mediaeval,  isn't  it?"  said  Kilgour, 
watching  the  riders  as  they  struggled  with  gos- 
samer raiment  that  sometimes  flopped  over 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN  97 

their  heads  unassisted,  and  sometimes  clung, 
entangling  them  in  cobwebs. — "In  the  days  of 
knighthood  we  all  wore  bits  of  our  ladies '  cloth- 
ing." 

The  Duchess  grumbled. 

"Pity  we  can't  revive  other  habits,"  she  said. 
"There  was  a  useful  practice  of  wringing  ob- 
noxious people's  necks." 

1 '  Poor  Julia, ' '  said  Kilgour.  '  *  Don 't  grudge 
her  her  little  triumph.  She  only  wants  to  pub- 
lish it  abroad  that  it  was  her  own  fault  she  was 
forsaken." 

But  the  Duchess's  brow  was  grim. 

The  night  was  black  and  starless,  and  had 
been  still.  The  villages  they  passed  gave  back 
startled  echoes,  awakened  out  of  sleep  by  the 
rattling  of  the  cavalcade.  Susan  was  tucked 
in  between  Kitty  Drake  and  the  Duchess,  who 
intended  to  change  to  her  horse  when  the  race 
began,  and  in  the  meantime  was  driving  them 
at  a  smacking  pace.  She  kept  her  buggy  at 
the  head  of  the  procession,  and  was  the  first 
to  whisk  round  a  perilously  sudden  turning  that 
led  off  the  turnpike,  and  sent  them  bumping 
into  a  field. 

In  front  of  them  stretched  a  dim  line  of 
country  that  had  darkened  into  strangeness, 
puzzling  the  most  familiar  eyes.  Here  and 
there  were  flickering  lights,  like  will-o'-the- 


98  THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

wisps,  luring  and  warning,  indicating  danger. 
And  the  men  were  to  ride  there.  .  .  . 

Susan  stood  up  in  the  buggy,  supported  by 
Kitty's  arm,  straining  her  eyes  to  watch  the 
start.  She  could  make  out  a  little;  by  dint  of 
hard  gazing  she  learnt  to  distinguish  the  figures 
that  moved  yonder.  In  the  middle  of  the  field 
an  indistinct  line  of  riders  were  drawn  up,  wait- 
ing. 

A  man  shouted  back  to  the  watchers,  and 
their  prattle  hushed.  There  was  an  instant  of 
absolute  silence,  suspended  breath; — and  then 
somebody  swung  a  lantern. 

"Go!"  he  cried. 

Leaping  into  the  darkness  the  line  of  horses 
broke  like  a  wave  and  went,  their  limbs  gleam- 
ing. Already  they  were  blundering  into  the 
first  hedge,  and  there  was  a  crash,  relieved  by 
laughter  as  the  first  spill  resulted  in  one  man 
picking  himself  up  unhurt.  The  rest  were 
swinging  on ;  rising  again,  more  warily,  a  little 
further ;  and  just  visible,  for  the  last  time,  black 
objects  against  the  sky. 

The  Duchess  set  her  foot  in  the  stirrup  and 
galloped  off.  Susan  rocked  as  she  stood,  and 
was  nearly  flung  out  as  the  buggy  started 
forward,  and  the  whole  cavalcade  whirled 
blindly  into  a  lane  that  was  all  ruts  and  stones 
and  turf. 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN  99 

Strange  what  an  unimagined  wildness  dark- 
ness and  ignorance  lent  to  that  plain  strip  of 
country.  The  fields  that  slanted  were  dreadful 
hills  sinking  into  unknown  abysses,  the  brooks 
rushed  like  rivers,  the  hedges  lifted  themselves 
gigantic.  Many  who  had  ridden  over  the 
ground  by  daylight  times  without  number  ex- 
claimed, and  wished  the  night  at  an  end. 

Kitty  Drake,  however,  was  screaming  with 
delight. 

"Here  they  come!"  she  shrilled.  "Oh,  shut 
up,  you  people.  You'll  scare  the  horses.  I 
know  it's  awfully  weird,  but  still — !  That's 
Dicky,  of  course.  I'd  know  Nanny's  frills  any- 
where; he  looks  like  a  mad  pierrot.  Oh,  and 
Colonel  Birch,  with  Mrs.  Uffington's  chiffon 
scarf  tied  on  to  him.  Mrs.  Uffington,  it  was 
base  of  you  not  to  risk  it.  My  best  garment 
is  floating  there,  being  torn  to  ribbons  by 
Gregory's  spurs." 

"Sit  down,  Kitty!"  cried  somebody  at  her 
elbow.  "You  can't  see  anything  yet;  it's  all 
imagination. ' ' 

"I  see  it  with  my  mind's  eye,"  she  declared; 
but  subsided. 

A  few  men  on  horseback  scampered  out  of 
the  nothingness  and  drew  up  beside  them. 
This  was  the  place  to  watch  the  riders  jump 
the  water.  They  pressed  close  in  a  peering 


100          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

bunch,  the  cigars  in  their  mouths  making  red 
points  in  the  gloom.  The  Duchess  halted  by 
the  buggy,  a  curious  figure  in  Gregory  Drake's 
greatcoat,  with  the  sleeves  turned  up. 

"All  right,  so  far,"  she  said,  in  her  gruff 
voice,  cheerily.  "They  have  been  signalling 
with  the  lanterns.  Queer  how  the  darkness 
seems  to  swallow  'em  up  alive ! ' ' 

As  she  spoke  they  all  heard  a  distant  thud- 
ding. There  was  something  terrifying  in  this 
invisible  approach;  it  seemed  to  promise  catas- 
trophe. Surely  some  sudden  end  would  come 
to  that  beating  of  horses'  hoofs — !  Nearer 
and  nearer  the  unseen  racers  came,  until  they 
were  almost  on  the  top  of  the  watching  throng. 
Then  there  was  a  glimpse  of  great  beasts  rising 
in  the  air. 

The  first  horse  came  down  short  of  the  land- 
ing-place, plunging  into  the  hidden  water  that 
ran  beneath.  His  splash  was  followed  by  an- 
other as  the  next  man  faltered  and  went  in 
deep.  Then  a  third  went  up. 

Someone  had  an  acetylene  motor  lamp,  and 
held  it  suddenly  on  high.  It  made  a  vivid 
glare,  illuminating  that  rider's  face,  his  eyes 
staring  ahead,  his  mouth  shut  and  smiling — 

"Turn  out  that  lamp.  You'll  dazzle  'em,  you 
damned  idiot!"  yelled  Kilgour.  "It  isn't  a 
pantomime!" 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          101 

The  next  horse  had  taken  fright.  There 
was  stamping  and  swearing ;  and  then  the  blind- 
ing flare  was  extinguished,  leaving  the  scene 
darker.  The  faces  that  had  shone  pale  and  un- 
earthly in  that  brief  wave  of  limelight  could 
not  longer  be  recognised. 

Susan  shivered  with  excitement.  That  was 
Barnaby  she  had  seen.  .  .  . 

No  woman  was  in  his  head  just  then;  his 
spirit  was  intent  on  the  splendid  peril  of  that 
night  ride.  Something  in  herself  understood 
him.  She  felt  proud  of  him,  reckless  with  him, 
afraid  of  nothing.  But  he  had  landed  and  was 
away  on  the  further  side. 

Now  they  were  all  in  or  over,  and  the  water 
jump  was  deserted.  The  last  who  had  failed 
to  clear  it  had  struggled  up  the  bank  and  swung 
dripping  into  his  saddle,  feeling  for  his  reins. 
They  were  laughing  at  him  because  he  had  let 
go  and  tried  to  swim,  not  at  first  realising  that 
it  wasn't  up  to  his  knees.  .  .  . 

But  he  had  lost  his  head  in  the  dark. 

There  was  time,  if  they  hurried,  to  reach  the 
hillside  at  the  back  of  the  intervening  dip,  full 
of  pitfalls,  and  gain  a  place  of  vantage  to  wit- 
ness what  they  might  of  the  finish.  Kilgour, 
who  knew  the  country  blindfold,  pushed  on. 
ahead,  guiding  them;  and  the  rest  trusted  to 
his  instinct.  He  unlatched  a  gate,  flinging  it 


102          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

wide  for  the  others  to  scramble  through,  cut 
along  close  under  the  branching  side  of  a 
spinney,  forded  a  water-course,  and  spun  up  a 
cart  track;  emerging  suddenly  on  the  side  of 
the  hill.  Behind  him  pressed  a  clattering,  jolt- 
ing troop,  that  stopped  dead  as  he  threw  up 
his  arm  and  listened. 

The  riders  had  to  make  a  circuit,  but  they 
should  be  near.  What  was  the  meaning  of  this 
long  pause  ?  of  the  utter  silence  ?  For  the  first 
time  the  women  betrayed  a  nervous  thrill  that 
was  not  pure  excitement.  The  waiting  dashed 
their  spirits.  They  tried  to  laugh,  and  their 
laughter  sounded  strange. 

' l  There 's  bound  to  be  some  misfortune, ' '  mut- 
tered someone,  as  a  night  bird  croaked  in  the 
trees.  And  above  the  hush  a  woman's  voice 
pealed,  hysterical,  calling  on  heaven  to  witnesg 
that  she  had  dissuaded  Billy — 

"Hush!" 

The  men  who  were  judging  talked  in  whis- 
pers as  they  sat  quietly  on  their  horses,  motion- 
less, save  for  an  occasional  jingling  bit,  under 
the  clump  of  firs  that  was  the  winning-post. 
Their  ears  were  on  the  alert,  but  all  the  queer 
noises  of  the  night  were  treacherously  alike, 
and  that  might  be  nothing  but  running  water 
that  seemed  a  distant  galloping.  One  man 
looked  at  his  watch. 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          103 

''They're  due,"  he  said.  "Bar  accidents. 
Can't  you  hear  'em?" 

Then  at  last,  clear  in  the  distance,  the  gallop 
came. 

Far  in  that  mysterious  valley  the  lanterns 
twinkled,  making  the  darkness  visible.  Where 
the  lights  glimmered  there  was  danger. 

"D'you  see  that?"  said  Kilgour  in  the  ear 
of  his  neighbour.  A  spark  dipped  suddenly. 
— "One  man  down." 

At  the  next  jump  another  light  went  out. 

"A  bit  weird,  these  signals,"  said  Kilgour 's 
neighbour.  "I  don't  like  'em;  it's  too  in- 
fernally suggestive.  Where  are  they  now?" 

The  watchers  herded  together,  all  standing 
up,  all  staring;  trying  to  pierce  the  gloom,  as 
the  unseen  horses  came  thundering  up  the  rise. 
Singly  they  ran  in. 

Susan  was  sure  that  Barnaby  would  win. 
She  could  not  understand  why  her  heart  beat 
so  loud. 

<  <  One— two— three— ! ' ' 

They  were  all  frantically  counting.  Five 
men  still  up ; — but  not  yet  near  enough  to  dis- 
tinguish faces. 

"If  Barnaby  isn't  in  the  first  three  he's 
down. ' ' 

Who  said  that?  She  gave  one  shudder  and 
was  quite  still. 


104          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

"Oh,  God,  don't  let  him  be  killed.  Don't  let 
him  be  killed ! ' '  she  was  crying  to  herself. 

The  fir  trees  spread  their  dark  plumes  over- 
head; in  the  boughs  there  was  a  strange  sigh- 
ing. .  .  .  If  he  was  not  in  the  first  three, 
if  he  was  missing — her  one  friend  in  a  land  of 
strangers,  lying  there  crushed  and  lifeless  in 
the  dark : — 

"Oh,  God — !"  she  cried  under  her  breath. 

And  then  out  of  the  blackness  shot  a  head- 
long figure,  cleaving  it  like  an  arrow.  That 
blur  beneath  was  the  final  jump,  the  last  hedge 
that  barred  the  way  with  its  ragged  line.  And 
he  charged  it  as  if  it  were  not  there,  keeping 
on  in  his  tremendous  rush. 

"Barnaby!"  they  shouted.  They  knew  his 
laugh  before  they  could  see  his  face. 

"A  near  thing,"  he  said,  and  pulled  up  the 
black  mare,  who  turned  her  head  towards  him 
as  he  dismounted,  her  eye-balls  glistening  in 
the  darkness  with  something  like  human 
pride. 

"You  didn't  steady  her  there,"  said  Kilgour. 

"Steady  her?— We  had  to  come  for  all  we 
were  worth!"  he  said. 

The  Duchess,  striding  afoot,  made  her  way 
into  the  circle  round  him.  Barnaby  was  ex- 
plaining how  he  had  ridden  into  one  of  the 
lantern-bearers,  a  silly  fool  who  had  turned  his 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          105 

light  and  was  standing  into  the  hedge;  and 
how  he  had  got  off  to  make  sure  the  poor 
devil  wasn't  injured.  He  had  had  to  ride 
after  that  like  fury;  no  leisure  to  grope  his 
way.  .  .  . 

" Since  you  are  not  smashed  up,"  said  the 
Duchess,  shaking  him  by  the  arm,  "go  and 
show  yourself  to  your  wife.  You  nearly 
frightened  her  to  death. ' ' 

She  piloted  him  to  the  buggy,  and  stood 
by,  with  her  unsentimental  countenance  con- 
siderately averted. 

"I  am  so  glad  you  won,"  said  Susan.  She 
spoke  steadily,  controlling  the  traitorous  catch 
in  her  throat.  How  was  she  to  assure  him  that 
she  was  not  guilty  of  causing  him  to  be  dragged 
to  her  side? 

The  man  smiled  at  her  stiff  politeness.  He 
was  still  hot,  still  breathing  a  little  hard,  the 
spell  of  his  ride  still  on  him ; — and  Julia 's  wisp 
of  muslin  was  twisted  round  his  neck. 

"I'm  sorry  you  were  scared,"  he  said. 
"I'm  rather  in  the  habit  of  doing  ridiculous 
tilings  like  this.  There  wasn't  much  danger 
really  .  .  .  and  I  didn't  think  you  would 
mind. ' ' 

His  casual  apology  struck  her  like  a  blow. 
What  right  had  she — I  How  it  must  amuse 
him  that  she  should  affect  to  care. 


106          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

"I  did  not  mind/'  she  said  proudly.  "It 
was — funny." 

One  of  his  friends  was  coming  up  with  a 
coat  to  throw  over  him.  The  men  who  had 
come  to  grief  were  straggling  in,  bruised  and 
dirty,  but  miraculously  sound.  Kitty  Drake 
leaned  over  the  wheel  on  the  other  side,  hailing 
them,  calling  to  each  man  to  ask  if  he  was 
alive.  .  .  . 

"Was  it?"  said  Barnaby,  and  smiled.  The 
glint  in  his  eyes  reminded  her  of  his  face  as  the 
light  flashed  on  him,  dare-devil,  reckless,  down 
there  when  he  jumped  the  water.  Perhaps  the 
joke  was  a  little  too  much  for  him. 

"You  are  not  altogether  a  callous  person," 
he  said  slowly.  "I  don't  believe  you,  Susan. 
You  fainted  when  I  came  home.  ." 


CHAPTER  VI 

"DULL?"  said  Lady  Henrietta. 

The  girl  became  aware  of  her  with  a  start. 

Barnaby  had  just  gone,  and  the  house  was 
quiet.  Late  as  usual,  he  had  come  clinking 
down  in  his  spurs,  and  run  out  to  his  waiting 
horse;  and  she  had  seen  him  off,  but  had  not 
yet  turned  away  from  the  door.  Lady  Hen- 
rietta's uncommon  earliness  had  surprised  her. 
She  did  not  know  how  wistful  her  aspect  was. 

"No,"  she  said.  "Oh,  no.  I  was  only 
watching — " 

"To  see  the  last  of  him,"  retorted  Lady 
Henrietta  smartly.  "I  know — I  know.  One 
glimpse  of  him  as  he  crosses  the  wooden  bridge, 
and  again  a  peep  before  he  cuts  across  by  the 
willows.  How  dare  you  let  him  set  off  day 
after  day  without  you?" 

She  paused.  There  was  mischief  in  her  eye, 
an  unwonted  touch  of  excitement.  One  would 
have  said  she  was  plotting. 

"You  are  too  lamb-like,"  she  said.  "I'll 
give  you  a  horse.  Tell  him  you'll  go  hunting 
with  him  to-morrow." 

She  laughed  outright  at  the  girl's  look  of 
consternation. 

107 


108          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

"No,"  she  said,  "you  wouldn't.  My  dear, 
you  have  got  him,  and  you  must  keep  him. 
It's  a  woman's  business  to  look  after  her  hus- 
band, to  throw  herself  into  his  occupations,  and 
rescue  him  from  the  ravening  lions  that  run  up 
and  down  in  the  earth.  Why  didn't  you  back 
me  up  when  I  attacked  him  last  night,  and  he 
put  me  off  with  his  nonsense  about  a  quiet 
pony?  Why  didn't  you  insist?" 

Susan  flushed  scarlet,  remembering  Lady 
Henrietta's  unexpected  onslaught  and  Bar- 
naby's  good-humoured  amazement;  his  vague 
promise  of  giving  her  a  riding  lesson.  He 
glanced  at  her  mirthfully,  and  that  look  of  his 
had  called  up  a  hot  disclaimer  of  any  wish. 
Was  it  not  in  their  bargain  that  as  far  as  pos- 
sible they  were  not  to  haunt  each  other? 

"Since  you  are  so  meek,"  said  Lady  Hen- 
rietta, who  did  not  miss  her  confusion,  "I  must 
put  my  finger  in  the  pie." 

Her  eyes  were  not  young,  but  they  were  far- 
seeing;  she  turned  from  the  prospect  at  which 
Susan  had  been  gazing,  and  laid  authoritative 
fingers  on  her  sleeve. 

"Eun  upstairs,"  she  said,  "and  get  into  your 
habit.  I've  told  Margaret  to  have  it  ready. 
It  won't  fit,  probably,  but  you  are  not  vain; 
— it's  borrowed.  Don't  stare  at  me,  you  baby ! 
Eackham  and  I  settled  it  the  night  he  dined 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          109 

here,  while  you  and  Barnaby  were  trying  not 
to  talk  to  each  other.  I  don't  know  whether 
you  can  ride  or  not,  but  you  must  begin. ' ' 

She  finished  up  with  a  chuckle.  The  sight 
of  Susan's  face — well,  that  was  enough  for  her. 
She  had  turned  a  more  potent  key  than  she 
knew. 

Two  horses  were  pawing  the  gravel  beside 
the  door,  and  one  of  them  had  a  side-saddle 
on  his  back.  She  had  seen  them  coming  when 
she  despatched  her  daughter-in-law  to  dress. 
Eackham  himself  was  waiting  on  the  steps. 
Lady  Henrietta  beckoned  to  him  with  the  joy 
of  a  bad  child  firing  a  train  of  powder. 

"I've  told  her,"  she  said.  "She'll  be  down 
in  a  minute.  Take  her  once  or  twice  round  the 
park,  and  if  she  doesn't  fall  off — " 

"She  won't  fall  off,"  said  Eackham. 

"You  brought  her  a  quiet  horse!" — the  con- 
spirator was  feeling  a  slight  compunction. 

Barnaby 's  cousin,  his  ancient  rival,  smiled 
under  his  moustache.  "I'll  take  good  care  of 
her,  my  aunt,"  he  said. 

"You  are  an  obliging  demon,  Eackham,"  she 
observed.  "It  was  good  of  you  to  give  up 
your  hunting." 

"They'll  be  at  Eanksboro'  about  twelve,"  he 
said  significantly.  '  *  If  you  really  wanted  us  to 
give  Barnaby  a  surprise — " 


110          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

Lady  Henrietta  favoured  him  with  an  en- 
lightening nod.  Whether  or  no  he  was  bent 
on  furthering  her  purposes,  assuredly  she 
might  trust  him. 

"Villain,"  she  said.  "You  understand  me; 
it's  an  experiment, — it's  a  squib!" 

Twice  Susan  rode  solemnly  round  the  park. 
To  her,  remembering  how,  as  a  child,  she  had 
ridden,  cross-legged,  bare-backed,  anyhow,  any- 
thing— their  solicitude  was  absurd.  She  swung 
her  foot  in  the  stirrup,  lifting  a  transfigured 
face. 

"You  are  all  right,"  said  Eackham,  glancing 
backwards  towards  the  distant  windows.  "I 
knew  you  could  ride." 

He  bent  over  in  his  saddle  to  unlatch  the 
hand-gate  that  Barnaby  had  ridden  through  be- 
fore them,  taking  his  short  cut  over  the  wooden 
bridge  by  the  willows.  Keeping  his  horse  back, 
he  held  it  open. 

"Come  out  this  way,"  he  said.  They  went 
cantering  up  the  lane. 

Dim  and  dark  was  the  landscape,  threatening 
rain,  and  the  clouds  were  sinking  lower  and 
lower,  rubbing  out  the  hills.  A  kind  of  ex- 
pectation hung  in  the  air.  A  storm  gathering 
perhaps.  They  rode  up  and  up,  until  the  nar- 
row green  lane  came  to  a  sudden  stop,  and  a 
break  in  the  high  barriers  of  hawthorn  let  them 


THE  WAY  OF  A  "WOMAN          111 

on  to  a  ridge  that  hung  over  a  wide  sweep  of 
yalley.  Underneath  lay  a  fallow  strip,  reddish 
brown  amidst  the  green  waves  of  pasture,  and 
a  party  of  rooks  rose  cawing  above  the  idle 
plough. 

Susan,  her  heart  still  dancing,  laid  a  happy 
hand  on  her  horse's  mane, — the  willing  horse 
that  carried  her  so  smoothly. 

"You  like  it?"  said  Eackham. 

There  was  a  subtle  difference  between  his 
guardianship  and  that  of  his  cousin.  She 
missed  that  queer  sense  of  security  that  she  had 
with  Barnaby.  Why,  she  knew  not,  but  Back- 
ham's  neighbourhood  troubled  her.  She  felt  a 
nervous  inclination  to  burst  into  hurried 
chatter. 

"It  was  awfully  kind  of  Lady  Henrietta  to 
arrange  it, — and  of  you,"  she  said;  "though 
you  were  both  afraid  that  I  should  disgrace 
you.  Yes,  you  were  watching; — and  she  too: 
her  mind  misgave  her  when  she  saw  me  in  the 
saddle. — What  is  the  matter  with  the  horses?" 

"Look!"  he  said,  smiling  broadly. 

And  immediately  she  guessed.  Far  on  the 
right  she  distinguished  a  flick  of  scarlet. 

"Oh!"  she  said,  in  an  awed  whisper,  under- 
standing. 

"That's  one  of  the  whips  riding  on,"  he  ex- 
plained; "they  are  going  to  draw  the  spinney 


112          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

down  there,  just  underneath.  We're  in  for  it, 
aren't  we? — Shall  we  stay  where  we  are,  and 
chance  Barnaby's  displeasure?  I'll  open  the 
gates  for  you,  and  give  you  a  lead.  Can  you 
jump?" 

She  laughed  at  him,  carried  out  of  herself, 
back  in  remote  adventures  when  there  had 
been  nothing  she  would  not  dare.  Her  blood 
was  up,  and  she  felt  her  horse  quivering  be- 
neath her.  Hounds  were  in  the  spinney;  she 
had  glimpses  of  dappled  bodies  ranging  among 
the  trees;  at  the  eastern  side  an  interminable 
troop  of  riders  were  pouring  into  the  field. 
There  seemed  no  limit  to  their  numbers  as  they 
massed  thicker  and  thicker  on  the  skirts  of 
the  cover  till  there  was  but  the  south  side 
clear. 

"Keep  still!"  said  Kackham  in  a  breath, 
and  as  he  whispered  a  living  flash  passed  by. 
It  vanished  across  the  fallow,  as  a  whistle 
shrilled  from  below.  One  of  the  whips  had 
seen  him. 

"Steady!"  said  Eackham.  "Hounds  are 
coming  out.  He  broke  at  that  bottom  corner. 
-Now!" 

Her  horse  bounded  away  with  his.  She  was 
close  behind  him  as  they  raced  down  the  head- 
land. The  fence  at  the  end  was  low;  a  thorn- 
crammed  ditch  and  a  rotten  rail.  She  took  it, 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          113 

hardly  knowing,  but  for  her  horse's  excitement, 
that  she  had  jumped.  He  broke  into  a  gallop 
then,  and  she  let  him  go. 

''Who's  the  lady  out  with  Backham?"  called 
one  man,  waiting  his  turn  at  a  gap.  The  man 
ahead  of  him  squeezed  through  before  reply- 
ing. 

''Don't  know.  She's  chosen  a  damn  reckless 
pilot!" 

But  no  man's  recklessness  could  have  beaten 
hers.  She  followed  him  blindly;  nothing 
daunted  her,  nothing  dimmed  the  eagerness  in 
her  soul.  This  was  to  live  indeed. 

They  were  hard  on  the  pack.  She  could  hear 
them  in  front,  could  sometimes  catch  a  view  of 
them  flickering  on.  A  great  noise  of  galloping 
filled  the  air  behind,  drumming  hard;  but  she 
was  still  keeping  her  lucky  place  in  the  van. 
She  and  Eackham.  .  .  . 

There  was  something  formidable  ahead.  She 
felt  her  horse  faltering  in  his  stride,  not  afraid, 
but  doubtful; — those  that  were  close  behind 
were  parting  right  and  left ;  some  of  them  were 
falling  back.  Without  turning  her  head  she 
knew  it.  Eecklessly  she  kept  on.  The  others 
might  blench.  .  .  .  She  would  not. 

Up  went  her  horse,  and  in  mid-air  she  had 
time  to  ask  herself  what  would  happen,  to  guess 
that  it  was  touch  and  go.  It  seemed  a  great 


114          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

while  before  they  came  down,  with  a  jar  and  a 
stagger,  galloping  rather  wildly  on. 

She  was  too  excited  still  to  feel  tired,  too 
ignorant  of  danger  to  know  what  a  wild  line 
she  was  taking  now.  Just  ahead  of  her  Back- 
ham  had  disappeared  with  a  crack  of  timber, 
and  she  must  not  be  left  behind. 

An  ominous  crash  pursued  her  as  she  went 
through  a  stiff  barrier  of  thorns ;  a  loose  horse 
was  flying  past.  She  looked  dizzily  for  Back- 
ham,  wondering  if  it  was  his.  It  tried  to  clear 
the  next  fence  riderless,  but  was  too  unsteady, 
and  swerving  crosswise,  nearly  brought  her 
down.  In  the  field  beyond  it  was  stopped 
by  an  oxer.  Someone  behind  cracked  his 
whip.  .  .  . 

"We've  beaten  the  lot!"  called  Backham;  his 
voice  came  a  little  hoarse  in  her  ear.  "Half  of 
'em  funked  that  bullfinch,  and  there's  one  fel- 
low in  the  ditch — " 

She  reeled  in  her  saddle. 

"I've — no — breath  left,"  she  panted. 

"Pull  up.  Pull  up!"  said  Backham,  and 
leaned  over  as  she  managed  to  stop  her  horse. 
Her  knees  trembled  and  she  held  on  a  minute ; 
she  thought  she  was  going  to  fall  off  out  of 
sheer  fatigue. 

Hounds  were  baying  on  the  other  side  of  the 
hedge.  They  had  got  their  fox.  People  were 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          115 

coming  up  on  all  sides,  in  haste  to  mingle  with 
the  few  who  had  ridden  straight.  She  was 
vaguely  conscious  of  their  interested  regard; 
she  heard  a  general  buzz  of  gossip. 

''There's  Barnaby,"  said  Backham.  He  had 
dismounted,  and  stood  by  her  horse's  shoulder, 
pretending  to  do  something  with  a  buckle,  but 
in  reality  waiting  for  her  to  recover.  His  arm 
was  ready  to  catch  her  if  she  should  slide  off; 
his  wild  eyes  were  fixed  on  her. 

"Don't  forget  it  was  with  me,  not  with  him, 
you  rode  your  first  run,"  he  said.  The  tri- 
umph in  his  whisper  made  her  afraid.  She  felt 
like  a  truant. 

What  would  Barnaby  think  of  her?  Would 
he  be  very  angry?  Had  he  watched  her  riding, 
wondering  who  she  was?  She  lifted  her  face, 
a  little  proud,  but  troubled.  All  at  once  her 
glorious  adventure  wore  the  look  of  an  es- 
capade. 

He  had  ridden  up,  but  he  was  not  looking  at 
her  at  all.  The  set  of  his  mouth  was  hard. 

"I'll  take  charge  of  my  wife,"  he  said. 

How  strange  it  sounded.  Would  she  never 
get  used  to  it?  She  had  an  immediate  sense 
of  protection,  of  happiness  out  of  all  reason. 
But  what  else  could  he  call  her,  before  the 
world? 

His  cousin  grinned  at  him  brazenly. 


116          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

"If  you  haven't  too  much  on  your  hands,'* 
he  said  darkly.  ' '  Oh,  take  over  your  lawful  re- 
sponsibilities if  you  like.  You  needn't  fight  me. 
It  was  your  mother's  idea.  .  .  .  But  she's 
tired.  She  mustn't  stop  out  too  long." 

"It  was  a  mad  thing  to  do,"  said  Barnaby 
curtly ;  ' '  risking  her  life  over  these  fences — ! ' ' 

"Come,  come,"  said  Eackham,  "don't  paint 
me  too  black.  I  took  the  greatest  care  of  her. 
Didn't  I?" 

"I  was  looking  on,"  said  Barnaby. 

He  had  turned  to  Susan  at  last,  and  she  saw 
that  his  face  was  pale.  Something  in  him  re- 
sponded to  her  look  of  rapture  dashed. 

"Poor  little  girl!"  he  said.  "I  didn't  know 
— you  cared  about  it — "  Then  he  smiled  rue- 
fully. "By  Jove!"  he  said.  "You  gave  me  a 
fright.  I  thought  you'd  get  yourself  killed  a 
dozen  times.  And  I  had  a  bad  start.  I 
couldn't  get  up  to  you.  There,  don't  let's  look 
as  if  we  were  quarrelling,  though  under  the  cir- 
cumstances,—do  you  think  we  should?" 

She  plucked  up  spirit  to  answer  him  in  kind. 
"On  the  stage,"  she  said,  "the  audiences  would 
expect  it." 

"Well,"  he  said,  "we'll  disappoint  the 
audience.  .  .  .  You  won  your  bet,  Kilgour ; 
it  is  my  wife.  Wasn  't  it  wicked  of  her  I ' ' 

She  found  herself  trotting  on  at  his  side. 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN         117 

Backham  had  fallen  back.  It  was  Barnaby  who 
directed  her,  who  rode  at  her  right  hand ;  and  a 
cheery  crowd  hemmed  her  in. 

At  the  head  of  the  procession  hounds  were 
moving  on.  Occasionally  the  authorities  called 
a  halt  while  they  searched  a  patch  of  trees  by 
the  wayside,  or  turned  aside  to  examine  a  hol- 
low tree.  But  these  were  not  serious  diver- 
sions. Once,  indeed,  there  was  a  whimper  as 
the  pack  ran  scampering  into  a  small  planta- 
tion, and  the  huntsman  went  in  to  see  what  it 
was,  his  scarlet  glancing  in  the  bare  brown  mist 
of  larches. 

"I  know  what '11  happen  to  us,"  grumbled 
Kilgour,  as  the  verdict  was  issued  that  it  was 
empty.  "We'll  climb  up  on  the  top  of  Eanks- 
boro'  and  the  heavens  will  open  on  us." 

The  ranks  closed  up  again  as  the  pack 
tumbled  back  sadly  into  the  road.  Kilgour  was 
a  true  prophet ;  they  were  bent  at  last  towards 
that  unfailing  harbour.  On  they  pushed,  up 
hill  and  down,  through  a  grey  village  where 
the  trees  shut  out  the  sky  from  the  winding 
street,  and  then  slap  in  at  a  gate  that  let  them 
on  to  the  grass  again. 

11  Where  are  we?"  asked  Susan,  as  she  was 
squeezed  in  the  press  through  the  gate,  finding 
elbow-room  as  her  neighbours  scattered  on  the 
other  side,  spreading  downward. 


118          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

i 'On  the  wild  side  of  Banksboro ', "  said  Bar- 
Baby.  * '  Stick  to  me  if  you  are  thinking  of  get- 
ting lost.  You'll  see  where  you  are  when  we 
reach  the  top,  and  you  can  look  down  on  the 
cover; — but  that's  at  the  other  side.  Don't 
you  remember  the  black  look  of  it  on  the  hill- 
side, off  the  Melton  and  Oakham  road?" 

All  were  hurrying  across  the  rough  bottom, 
with  its  hillocks  and  furze  bushes,  and  patches 
of  withered  bracken;  then,  gathering  in  the 
narrow  bit  that  let  them  in  under  a  fringe  of 
trees,  mounting  upwards.  On  the  further  side 
of  the  summit  they  came  out  above  a  thick 
plantation;  and  there  they  drew  rein  and 
waited,  unsheltered,  bare  to  the  sky  overhead. 

Down  came  the  rain. 

"I  wish  I  was  dead,"  said  a  lank  man  be- 
hind Kilgour.  "I  wish  I  was  fighting  a  bye- 
election  ! ' ' 

Those  who  were  near  huddled  into  the  brist- 
ling hedge  that  might  break  an  east  wind,  but 
was  useless  against  this  downpour.  A  few 
slunk  back  over  the  brow,  and  herded  under 
the  trees;  the  rest  sat  stubbornly  on  their 
horses,  humping  their  shoulders,  their  dripping 
faces  set  grimly  towards  the  cover  below; 
hearkening  to  hounds. 

"Would  you  rather  be  pelted  with  words?" 
said  Kilgour,  ramming  his  hat  over  his  nose. — 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          119 

"  Surely  they  trickle  off  you.    *    .    .    Jerusa- 
lem !  we  '11  be  drowned. ' ' 

The  lank  man  turned  up  his  collar,  feeling 
for  a  button. 

"Well,  they  are  dry!"  he  said. 

"They  don't  give  you  rheumatism,  I  grant 
you,"  said  a  fat  man  beside  him;  "but  they 
aren't  healthy.  I  don't  care  what  a  man's 
trade  is,  if  he  can  discourse  about  it,  it's  im- 
probable he  can  do  his  job.  And  yet  we  poor 
devils  of  politicians  have  to  spin  our  brains  into 
jaw — " 

"True,"  said  Kilgour.  "You  don't  trust  a 
glib  fellow  to  dig  your  garden.  .  .  .  And 
yet  you  turn  over  your  country  to  him." 

The  fat  man  grunted. 

"I  never  want  to  open  my  mouth  again,"  he 
said.  "I'm  addressing  six  meetings  a  week  in 
my  constituency,  and  nothing  will  go  down  with 
'em  but  ranting.  Tell  you  what,  Kilgour,  we're 
going  on  wrong  principles  altogether.  What 
we  want  is  Government  by  Minority.  Just  you 
get  on  a  platform  and  look  down  on  their  silly 
faces — !  The  fools  are  in  the  majority  in  any 
walk  of  life;  they  swamp  the  sensible  chaps, 
even  Solomon  noticed  that.  And  it's  the  fools 
we  must  please,  because  they  are  many.  We 
take  their  opinion;  we  let  them  settle  things. 
The  whole  system  is  upside  down." 


120          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

"There's  something  in  that,"  said  Kilgour. 
"It  always  amuses  me  how  you  vote-catchers 
despise  a  man  who  works  with  his  head;  and 
bow  down  to  your  ignorant  fetish  the  working 
man. ' ' 

There  was  a  slight  disturbance  in  the  cover, 
but  nothing  came  of  it.  People  shifted  back- 
wards and  forwards;  there  was  a  smell  of  wet 
leather  and  steaming  horses. 

"Are  you  cold?"  said  Barnaby. 

Susan  smiled.  He  was  between  her  and  the 
worst  of  it ;  the  rain  beat  on  his  upturned  face 
as  he  sheltered  her.  She  liked  watching  him 
.  .  .  she  was  not  unhappy. 

The  lank  man  was  trying  to  light  a  cigar. 
He  glanced  up  between  his  hollowed  fingers, 
his  eyes  twinkling  in  a  creased  red  face. 

"Our  lives  aren't  worth  living,  Mrs.  Bar- 
naby," he  said.  "We  are  all  made  so  painfully 
aware  of  our  inferior  status.  The  tail  wagging 
the  dog;  that's  what  we  have  come  to." 

The  fat  man  followed  his  glance,  and  his  dis- 
gusted expression  gave  way  to  a  friendly  gleam. 
His  puffy  eyelids  quivered. 

"Let  us  grumble,"  he  said.  "You  see  how 
the  weather  behaves  to  us  when  we  escape  for 
a  week-end  from  bondage.  There  isn't'  a 
bright  spot  anywhere  but  one  tale  I  heard 
lately  in  my  division." 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          121 

The  lank  man  tossed  away  his  match;  the 
cigar  was  drawing. 

"And  what  was  that?"  he  said. 

"Well,  it  seems  they  got  a  Cabinet  Minister 
down  to  rant  against  me,"  said  the  fat  man, 
chuckling.  "He  had  made  himself  particularly 
obnoxious  to  our  militant  sisters,  and  there 
were  terrible  hints  as  to  what  the  ladies  were 
going  to  do  about  him.  So  a  London  paper 
commissioned  their  blandest  reporter  to  call  on 
'em,  and  incidentally  get  at  their  intentions ; — 
and  he  stuck  a  flower  in  his  buttonhole  and 
tackled  an  engaging  young  suffragette,  who 
confided  in  him  the  tremendous  secret.  Swore 
him,  of  course,  to  silence — " 

"And  the  wretch  betrayed  her?" 

The  politician  grinned. 

"They  were  going  to  disguise  themselves  as 
men,"  he  explained,  "and  pervade  the  meeting 
in  the  likeness  of  divers  of  my  rival's  most 
prominent  supporters.  She  was  to  make  up  as 
a  well-known  farmer  who  happened  to  have 
lumbago; — leggin's,  and  corporation,  and  side- 
whiskers  gummed  on  tight." 

"Pity  she  let  it  out,"  said  Kilgour. 

"Aha!"  said  the  other  man,  "she  was  art- 
less. Well  the  news  got  down  to  'em  somehow, 
just  in  time  for  the  meeting,  and  they  set  a 
bodyguard  over  anybody  who  looked  suspicious. 


122          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

Couldn't  keep  out  their  principal  backers,  or 
insult  'em  by  explaining,  and  hadn't  time  to  in- 
vestigate.— And  my  rival  got  on  his  legs. — 
I'm  told  they  were  all  more  or  less  in  hysterics, 
each  man  glaring  at  his  neighbour.  And  these 
whiskers  looked  jolly  unnatural  in  the  artificial 
light.  My  rival  had  got  as  far  as  to  mention 
his  'right  honourable  friend  who,  at  great  in- 
convenience'— when  that  old  farmer  started  to 
blow  his  nose.  'Turn  her  out!'  he  screeched, 
and  four  men  seized  the  astonished  old  chap, 
and  hoisted  him,  kicking  and  bellowing,  to  the 
door.  .  .  .  There  was  a  glorious  row,  I'm 
told.  It  practically  broke  up  the  meeting. ' ' 

"Ah,"  said  Kilgour,  "politics  aren't  always 
an  arid  waste. ' ' 

"No,  occasionally  there  is  rain  in  the  desert. 
Are  we  ever  going  to  move?  I'm  soaking." 

In  the  dark  heavens  the  clouds  were  frayed 
by  glimmering  streaks  of  light.  Barnaby 
moved  impatiently,  and  beyond  him  Julia  Kelly 
passed  by,  changing  her  station.  The  girl  who 
was  sheltered  by  his  shoulder  had  forgotten 
that  Julia  must  be  there.  She  felt  suddenly 
that  she  was  a  stranger. 

How  often  must  he  and  Julia  have  hunted 
together,  how  often  they  must  have  ridden  side 
by  side,  sharing  the  day's  fortunes;  whispering 
contentedly  to  each  other  as  he  shielded  her 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN         123 

from  the  storm ! — More  telling  than  speech  had 
been  Julia's  half-sad,  half-reproachful  smile. 

"They've  got  him  out!"  cried  Kilgour,  spin- 
ning round  and  heading  a  mad  stampede.  As 
the  rest  imitated  him,  Barnaby  turned  to  Susan. 
' '  I  'm  not  going  to  let  you  out  of  my  sight ! "  he 
said. 

Down  the  hill  they  raced.  Hounds  were  fling- 
ing themselves  across,  bursting  louder  and 
louder  into  cry,  proclaiming  that  they  were  on 
his  line.  And  now  nobody  minded  rain. 

For  a  little  while  Susan  felt  the  magic  of  it 
again ;  the  swing  of  the  gallop,  the  exhilaration 
of  the  jumps  as  they  came ;  but  all  too  soon  she 
flagged.  They  were  hunting  slower;  hounds 
were  not  so  sure  of  the  scent ;  they  were  slack- 
ening, losing  faith.  The  huntsman  went  for- 
ward, and  the  Master  stopped  the  field.  Then 
they  went  on  again,  running  in  a  string  up  the 
hedge. 

Barnaby  turned  his  horse's  head  and  let  the 
crowd  go  by.  He  looked  at  her  significantly. 
How  did  he  know  that  she  could  not  keep  on 
much  longer? 

"I'll  take  you  home  now,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  don't!"  she  cried.    "I  am  so   sorry. 

.    .    Don 't  let  me  spoil  your  day. ' ' 

He  laughed. 

"I'll  pick  them  up  again  later  on,"  he  said. 


124         THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

"We  must  do  the  correct  thing,  mustn't  we? 
It  would  look  bad  if  I  let  you  go  home  alone. — 
Good  heavens,  how  tired  you  are!  You  can 
hardly  sit  on  your  horse.'* 

Lady  Henrietta,  the  mischief-maker,  waited 
with  equanimity  for  Barnaby  to  come  home. 
He  had  brought  Susan  back  and  gone  off  again 
on  a  fresh  horse,  giving  her  no  opportunity  of 
a  passage-at-arms  with  him. 

When  he  did  return  his  coolness  was  disap- 
pointing. She  waited  until  she  could  contain 
herself  no  longer. 

"Why  don't  you  ask  after  Susan?"  she  said 
at  last.  He  looked  up  then.  His  clothes  had 
dried  on  him,  he  had  changed  lazily  into  slip- 
pers, and  was  warming  his  shins  at  the  fire. 
They  had  finished  the  day  with  a  clinking  run. 
"She 'snot  ill?"  he  said. 

"I  put  her  to  bed,"  said  Lady  Henrietta, 
"when  she  came  in.  The  poor  child  could 
hardly  move.  ...  I  suppose  you  bullied 
her  frightfully  when  she  turned  up?" 

Barnaby  went  on  stirring  his  tea  and  stretch- 
ing himself  to  the  blaze. 

"I  told  her  to  have  a  hot  bath  and  a  good 
long  rest,"  he  said,  in  a  grandmotherly  tone. 
;'What  did  you  expect?  Were  you  hoping  that 
I  should  beat  her?" 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          125 

"I  was  hoping  all  kinds  of  things,"  said 
Lady  Henrietta. 

"Such  as—!" 

She  lost  all  patience.  What  was  the  use  of 
plotting  if  nothing  she  could  devise  would  rouse 
him?  Anything  would  be  more  satisfactory 
than  that  maddening  smile  of  his. 

"Do  you  want  to  break  the  child's  heart?" 
she  cried. 

For  a  moment  she  fancied  that  he  was 
startled;  she  could  not  see  his  face  so  well,  but 
the  cup  clattered  in  his  hand.  Then  she  dis- 
covered that  he  was  laughing  at  her. 

"Has  Susan  complained?"  he  said. 

"  She  ? "  said  Lady  Henrietta.  ' '  Oh,  how  lit- 
tle you  understand  her !  She  '11  never  compla.ni 
of  you.  All  I  hear  I  have  to  screw  out  of  other 
people.  From  what  they  tell  me — !  Oh,  she'll 
never  complain,  though  you  and  your  Julia 
make  yourselves  a  by-word!" 

She  paused  there,  confident  that  there  would 
be  an  outburst.  Her  triumphant  expectation 
was  dashed;  she  was  nearly  struck  dumb  with 
astonishment  when  she  heard  his  voice. 

"It's  a  queer  world,  mother." 

This  was  indeed  serious.  He  was  not  even 
angry; — and  she  had  hoped  to  make  him  furi- 
ous. She  scanned  him  anxiously,  stricken  with 
alarm. 


126         THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

"You  aren't  well?"  she  said. 

"I'm  a  little  bothered,"  he  said.  "Look 
here,  mother;  supposing — well,  supposing  a 
man  were  horribly,  irretrievably,  fond  of  a 
woman, — and  would  be  a  regular  cur  if  he  let 
her  know; — would  you  condemn  him  for  build- 
ing up  a  kind  of  rampart,  playing  with  fire  that 
he  knew  couldn't  burn  him,  to  keep  him  from 
losing  his  head,  and  hurting  the  thing  he — the 
thing  that  was  precious  to  him?  Oh,  damn  it 
all,  you  can't  possibly  understand." 

It  was  plain  as  a  pikestaff.  Lady  Henrietta 
was  justified  of  her  mischief-making.  Some- 
thing must  be  done.  There  was  law  and  order 
in  any  tactics  that  might  vex  the  siren  who  was 
still  robbing  her  of  her  boy.  Never  in  this 
world  would  there  be  peace  between  her  and 
Julia. 

"If,"  she  said,  "you  want  me  to  believe  that 
you  married  Susan  to  stick  her  up  like  a  nine- 
pin  between  you  and  a  woman  who  threw  you 
over,  who  can't  bear  us  to  imagine  you  are  con- 
soled—!" 

She  broke  off  indignantly,  but  Barnaby 
would  not  quarrel.  He  got  up  and  laid  his 
hand  caressingly  on  her  shoulder. 

"Don't  excite  yourself,  mother,"  he  said. 
"I  was  talking  nonsense.  So  are  you.  .  .  . 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          127 

If  I  were  you  I  wouldn't  meddle.  It's  more 
dangerous  than  you  know. ' ' 

Then  he  went  away  to  change  out  of  his  hunt- 
ing clothes,  and  she  watched  his  departure  with 
a  wistful  exasperation,  lying  back  on  her  sofa. 

"What  a  nuisance  a  heart  is!"  she  said  to 
herself.  "He  would  have  had  it  out  with  me 
but  for  that." 


CHAPTEE  VII 

IT  was  at  this  time  that  Rackham  took  a  reviv- 
ing interest  in  the  devastating  Julia.  Covertly 
he  watched  her. 

And  she  became  aware  of  his  notice.  A 
curious  exultation  marked  her  discovery.  It 
was  a  sign  and  a  portent.  .  .  .  Not  perhaps 
of  any  sentiment  on  his  part  more  real  than  the 
unprofitable  flirtation  that  had  once  fatally 
blinded  her,  but  of  strange  matters  in  the  wind. 

Was  theje  an  ominous  stirring  of  that  past 
rivalry  in^iis  manner?  She  thought  so,  hug- 
ging the  vanity  that  was  all  her  armour  and 
stood  in  her  soul  for  imagination.  It  helped 
to  quicken  the  instinct  that  had  divined  a 
strangeness  between  Barnaby  and  Susan. 

The  insult  of  his  trying  to  make  a  tool  of  her 
twice  did  not  touch  her.  If  he  wanted  to  play 
the  old  trick  it  meant  that  he  believed  in  the 
old  situation.  The  suspicion  thrilled  her,  flat- 
tered her  wild  surmises.  .  .  . 

She  smiled  on  Rackham  when  he  came  call- 
ing, late  in  one  winter  afternoon. 

"What  on  earth  are  you  doing?"  he  asked, 
pushing  back  the  gate  with  his  whip  and  riding 
into  the  yard. 

128 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN         129 

"Shutting  up  the  hens,"  said  Julia. 

With  a  scarf  over  her  head  and  her  skirts 
tucked  up  (one  fault  of  Julia's  was  clumsy 
ankles)  she  was  clucking  at  the  door  of  the 
fowlhouse,  beguiling  the  creatures  in.  Her 
rather  tragic  air  was  incongruous. 

"I  have  to  see  to  them  myself,"  she  com- 
plained. "I  can't  trust  the  men.  They'd  let 
them  roost  in  the  trees  and  the  foxes  would  get 
them, — and  besides  they  would  steal  the  eggs. 
It's  an  odd  thing,  Eackham,  but,  drunk  or  sober, 
all  grooms  have  a  passion  for  boiled  eggs." 

"So  I've  heard,"  said  Eackham,  "and  like 
'em  best  poached.  They  say  no  groom  can  see 
an  egg  without  slipping  it  in  his  pocket." 

Julia  locked  up  the  fowlhouse  on  its  tenants 
and  sailed  towards  him  dangling  the  key.  Hens 
and  pigs  were  her  domestic  preoccupation  and 
she,  the  extravagant,  the  reckless,  descended  to 
queer  economies  in  the  way  of  calculating 
scraps.  In  a  matter  of  potato  peelings  the 
Irishwoman  in  her  came  angrily  uppermost. 
And  she  herded  her  live-stock  in  a  tea-gown  and 
velvet  slippers.  .  .  . 

"There  isn't  a  soul  in  the  place,"  she  said. 
"Did  you  come  over  to  see  the  horses?" 

"No.  I  came  to  see  you,"  said  Eackham 
bluntly.  "It  seemed  a  wise  way  of  spending 
Sunday  afternoon." 


130          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

Julia  smiled.  It  was  a  long  time  since  Back- 
ham  had  spent  Ms  Sunday  afternoons  in  that 
fashion.  She  flung  up  her  head  with  a  conquer- 
ing gesture  that  was  the  swift  translation  of 
her  thought,  and  waited  while  he  led  his  horse 
into  an  empty  stall. 

There  was  not  much  grandeur  in  Julia's  sur- 
roundings, and  her  belongings  were  negligible, 
eclipsed  by  her.  She  lived  with  an  uncle  and  a 
loutish  brother,  who  bowed  down  before  her, 
dreaded  her  a  little ;  and  were  her  humble  satel- 
lites. Nobody  took  them  into  consideration 
except  an  occasional  innocent  who  was  bitten 
by  them  in  a  deal  over  horses.  When  they  were 
not  unobtrusively  selling  screws  on  the  skirts 
of  the  hunt  they  were  in  Ireland;  and  in  their 
own  house  they  were  relegated  to  a  snuffy  little 
study.  Going  in  by  the  side  door  that  gave  on 
to  the  stable-yard  Julia  and  her  caller  passed 
through  that  sanctum  smelling  of  stale  tobacco, 
and  went  on  to  the  drawing-room. 

This  was  Julia's  room,  furnished  in  Eastern 
style  as  known  in  London  shops.  Ease,  just 
missing  elegance,  was  its  feature ;  and  rich,  deep 
colours.  She  was  too  lazy  to  play  the  piano, 
but  a  glorified  barrel-organ  supplied  its  ma- 
chine-made music.  And  as  it  stood,  where  the 
light  fell  on  it,  still  in  the  place  of  honour,  not 


131 

yet  dethroned  since  the  time  of  mourning, — a 
photograph. 

Eackham  paused  in  front  of  it  with  a  slight 
chuckle,  immediately  suppressed.  It  looked  un- 
commonly large  and  lifelike  in  its  massive  silver 
frame. 

"That's  a  good  'un  of  Barnaby.  When  was 
it  done?"  he  asked. 

Her  sigh  was  reminiscent  as  she  swept  past 
him  to  the  fire.  "I  had  it  enlarged  from  one 
of  my  smaller  ones  when — when  the  dreadful 
news  came,"  she  said. 

"Ah  .  .  .  when  he  was  dead,"  said  Eack- 
ham, and  looked  about  him.  She  had  accumu- 
lated a  big  stock;  it  seemed  to  him  that  the 
whole  room  was  peppered  with  Barnaby. 
Surely  any  other  woman  would  have  packed  his 
photographs  out  of  sight,  would  have  been  a 
bit  ashamed  of  such  a  parade  in  the  face  of 
facts.  It  was  rather  sublime  how  Julia  was 
sticking  to  her  guns. 

"That's  where  you  used  to  sit,"  said  Julia, 
waving  a  ringed  hand,  and  he  subsided.  It 
really  was  like  old  times.  It  provoked  expecta- 
tion. 

They  sat  a  little  while  in  silence.  There  was 
a  light  as  of  old  victories  in  Julia's  face,  and 
she  too  seemed  to  be  listening,  waiting  for  his- 


132          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

tory  to  repeat  itself.  Absently  she  pushed  the 
cosy  down  on  the  tea-pot  (fresh  tea  was  never 
made  in  that  house)  in  anticipation  of  heaven 
knew  what  other  caller.  Eackham,  who  had 
not  darkened  her  door  for  years,  had  turned 
up.  On  the  head  of  that,  what  miracles  might 
not  happen?  Vaguely  excited  she  patted  the 
cosy  and  smiled  on  him. 

It  was  the  man  who  spoke  first.  He  put  his 
cup  down  and  met  her  glance. 

*  *  Expecting  anyone  else  I ' '  he  said. 

"No,"  said  Julia,  "no," — breathing  a  little 
quicker. 

He  could  be  sworn  he  had  heard  the  gate 
click — and  swing  creaking  against  the  bushes, 
as  it  used  to  do.  All  at  once  he  broke  into  un- 
explained laughter. 

Julia  rose  and  stood  by  the  chimney-piece, 
her  lips  parted,  her  eyes  expectant.  It  was  a 
fitting  climax  that  it  should  be  Barnaby  that 
walked  in. 

"Hullo!"  said  Eackham  checking  himself, 
serene. 

With  him  came  Julia's  uncle,  wheezing;  her 
brother  brought  up  the  rear.  They  were  talk- 
ing horses. 

"We're  having  a  look  at  that  mare,"  said 
Barnaby,  addressing  himself  to  Julia.  It  was 
perhaps  Eackham 's  quizzical  scrutiny  that  stif- 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          133 

fened  his  back  and  made  his  tone  so  formal. 
He  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room  as  if  he  had 
been  precipitated  into  it  by  her  relations,  and 
took  no  step  forward. — "Your  uncle's  asking 
too  much." 

"What!  Firefly?"  said  Rackham.  "She 
isn't  up  to  your  weight." 

"I  know  that,"  said  Barnaby  curtly  and 
looked  his  cousin  full  in  the  face.  * '  I  want  her 
for  my  wife." 

There  was  a  kind  of  challenge  in  his  tone. 

"Oho.  Just  so,"  said  Backham.  "Shoul- 
dering your  cares.  .  .  ." 

It  was  a  matter  of  years  since  these  two  had 
sparred  in  Julia's  drawing-room.  How  easy  it 
was  to  fall  into  the  rusty  habit,  to  ignore  all 
changes.  After  all  it  must  be  a  bit  upsetting 
to  walk  suddenly  into  that  familiar  room  and 
find  things  all  as  they  used  to  be,  even  to  the 
rival  on  the  hearth.  .  .  .  Was  Barnaby  try- 
ing his  strength,  or  what? 

It  was  just  possible  of  course  that  a  man  who 
had  been  badly  damaged  once  on  a  time  might 
wish  to  prove  to  himself  that  he  was  sound, 
might  walk  the  old  dangerous  path  in  bravado, 
to  show  that  he  was  not  giddy,  to  convince  an 
incredulous  world  that  he  could  keep  his  head. 
He  might  even  be  so  thoroughly  cured  that  it 
.didn't  strike  him  there  was  awkwardness  in 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

the  feat.  He  might  have  wiped  the  whole  epi- 
sode off  his  slate.  But  if  that  was  so  the  old 
rivalry  would  not  have  sprung  to  life  so 
promptly;  he  would  not  have  looked  at  his 
cousin  as  if  he  wanted  to  knock  him  down. 

"Why  didn't  Susan  come  with  you!"  said 
Eackham,  though  knowing  in  his  soul  that  noth- 
ing would  lure  the  girl  into  Julia's  house.  He 
had  too  vivid  a  recollection  of  that  one  scene 
he  had  been  privileged  to  witness  before  Bar- 
naby  had  stepped  on  to  the  stage  again.  "If 
you're  buying  the  mare  for  her  to  ride  she 
ought  to  have  a  look  at  her.  What  will  you  do 
if  she  doesn't  like  her?  Much  better  let  her 
stick  to  that  one  of  mine." 

"She'll  not  ride  your  horses,"  said  Barnaby, 
and  turned  his  shoulder  to  him.  There  was  a 
smouldering  heat  in  him  that  only  looked  for  a 
spark  to  burst  into  conflagration.  Lord!  how 
swiftly  passion  could  bridge  over  the  blotting 
years. 

"Oh,  poor  Susan!"  said  Eackham.  "Must 
she  Bo  as  she  is  told? — Do  you  find  her  so  obe- 
dient? .  .  .  Well,  I'm  off.  I'll  beat  a  re- 
treat. There  are  too  many  of  you  in  here,  old 
chap:  you  outnumber  me." 

He  couldn't  resist  that  quip,  beholding  the 
army  of  photographs  that  were  sprinkled  about 
the  room, — and  Barnaby  himself  in  the  middle 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          135 

as  large  as  life,  as  great  a  fool  as  ever.  Some- 
where in  the  background  Julia's  brother  pene- 
trated  the  joke,  uttering  a  solitary  guffaw. 

"What  d'you  mean?"  said  Barnaby,  wheel- 
ing on  him. 

"Oh,  nothing;  nothing,'*  said  Backham  mild- 
ly, and  took  his  leave,  suppressing  a  suffocating 
inclination  to  ribald  mirth  that  had  nearly  mas- 
tered him  as  he  squeezed  Julia's  hand.  There 
was  no  doubting  her  view  of  the  matter,  her 
purring  intensity  as  of  a  pleased  tiger-cat.  He 
wouldn't  have  missed  that  call  for  a  hundred 
pounds.  And  yet  he  wouldn't  have  bet  on  it. 
What  had  brought  him  there  had  been  simple 
scouting,  not  the  irresistible  premonition  that 
is  the  true  gambler's  luck. 

Was  it  conceivable  that  Barnaby  was  such  an 
idiot,  such  a  madman,  as  things  implied!  Oh, 
Lord,  yes !  All  things  were  possible ;  Eackham 
was  sure  of  that.  He  let  out  his  laughter  when 
he  had  got  on  to  his  horse  and  ridden  into  the 
road,  heedless  of  Julia's  relations,  who  had  seen 
him  off  the  premises  and  were  looking  on  at  his 
riding.  (Eackham  had  a  reputation  for  back- 
ing wicked  brutes.) 

Half  way  to  the  turning  somebody  barred  his 
progress. 

"Stand  and  deliver,"  said  Gregory  Drake. 
"We  could  hear  you  a  mile  off  disturbing  the 


136          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

Sabbath  peace.  What's  the  joke,  you  pi- 
rate?" 

Eackham  pulled  up.  It  was  getting  dusk  and 
his  expression  was  not  easily  legible.  He  shook 
his  head. 

1  'Nothing  much,"  he  said  darkly.  "I  am 
easily  amused  as  you  know.  A  trifling  matter 
of  my  eternal  happiness  and  another  chap's  in- 
fernal blunders." 

"You  don't  expect  us  to  understand  that?" 
said  Gregory  grumbling. 

"Not  I,"  said  Eackham.  "I'm  not  letting 
you  spoil  my  game. ' ' 

"Oh,  he's  mad,"  said  Gregory,  whipping  up. 
He  was  driving  tandem.  "Where  are  you  off 
to  with  that  vanload?"  retorted  Eackham,  get- 
ting on  to  the  grass.  "Wants  a  drop  of  oil  in 
the  axles." 

Gregory  looked  sheepish. 

"Fact  is,"  he  said,  "the  motor  has  broken 
down  and  we  were  obliged  to  haul  out  the  fam- 
ily coach.  If  you  looked  closer  you'd  see  it's 
nothing  worse  than  a  dog-cart.  We're  picking 
up  Julia  Kelly." 

"Oh,  are  you?"  said  Eackham.  "I  fancy 
Julia  is  otherwise  engaged.  I've  just  been  in." 

It  was  odd  how  quickly  they  caught  his  mean- 
ing. Kitty,  hanging  onto  the  back  seat,  lifted 
her  feathered  crest. 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          137 

"Hush!"  she  cried.  "Hold  your  tongue, 
Eackham !  I  don 't  believe  you. ' ' 

1 1  Well, '  >  he  said.    ' '  Go  and  see. ' ' 

"Do  you  actually  mean,"  screamed  Kitty, 
standing  up,  holding  on,  incoherent — "that 
Barnaby  is  there." 

"Oh,  come,"  said  Gregory,  "suppose  he  has 
strolled  across  for  a  chat  with  old  Kelly,  what's 
the  harm?  He's  married  and  done  for,  isn't 
he?  Pass  the  sponge  over  that  business, 
Kitty." 

But  Kitty  was  choking  with  righteous  wrath. 

"Drive  on,"  she  said.  "Oh,  you  men!  You 
infatuated  lot  of  babes!  Sponge,  indeed!  If 
I  could  wipe  out  Julia! — Doesn't  he  know  the 
outrageous  way  she  went  on  when  he  was  dead  ? 
Doesn't  he  know  that  no  self-respecting  being 
would  give  her  an  inch  to  spin  ells  and  ells. 
.  .  .  And  you  are  laughing,  Eackham ! ' ' 

He  rode  on  his  way  unabashed,  having  started 
the  most  arrant  little  gossip  in  Leicestershire 
on  his  cousin's  track.  It  would  be  a  sad  thing 
if  she  didn't  raise  the  country  in  her  champion- 
ship of  Susan.  Mischief  certainly  was  afoot. 

Kitty  swung  herself  down  the  instant  they 
reached  Julia's  gate  and  ran  up  the  gravel, 
marching  with  feathers  waving  in  at  the  open 
porch.  Her  husband  screwed  himself  round  to 
watch  her  ruefully  as  she  disappeared.  She 


138          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

was  not  a  long  time  inside.  Just  long  enough 
to  put  her  foot  in  it  as  Gregory  muttered,  quak- 
ing. She  was  capable  of  going  for  Barnaby  on 
the  spot,  and  putting  his  back  up.  The  worst 
way  to  manage  him,  as  anyone  might  have 
known. — He  hailed  her  anxiously  when  she 
came  out  at  last. 

"Well?"  he  said.  "Well?"  and,  getting  no 
answer — "You  haven't  brought  her?" 

Kitty  was  alarmingly  quiet;  her  vociferous 
little  voice  was  gone.  She  climbed  up  to  her 
perch  and  let  them  all  wait  vainly  for  a  descrip- 
tion of  her  encounter. 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  haven't.  I've  done  with 
Julia." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

SUSAN  was  in  the  garden. 

There  had  been  a  frost  in  the  night,  and  the 
4  bushes  crackled;  the  late  winter  sun  was  thaw- 
ing it  in  the  branches.  Behind  the  cloudy  glass 
in  the  greenhouses  were  primulas  and  hya- 
cinths, and  all  manner  of  scented  things,  a 
bright  blur  against  the  panes;  but  she  walked 
rather  the  slippery  paths  in  the  lifeless  gar- 
den. 

She  tried  to  picture  the  blackened  tufts  tall 
spikes  of  blossom,  and  the  long  line  of  rose 
trees,  all  muffled  in  dried  fern,  a  bewildering 
lane  of  sweetness.  Imagination  failed  her. 
The  blackbird  that  shot  out  of  the  yew  tree, 
screaming  his  sharp,  sweet  call ;  the  little  wag- 
tail running  at  a  wise  distance  in  the  path  be- 
hind;— they  might  guess  and  remember  what 
they  would  find  in  spring.  She  would  be  gone 
then ;  she  would  have  stepped  off  the  stage. 

Foolishly  she  counted  up  the  memories  she 
would  carry  with  her,  looked  back  at  the  great 
old  house,  so  warm  inside.  Strange  to  think 
of  the  time,  so  impossibly  near,  when  Barnaby 
would  release  her,  would  tell  her  that  he  had 

139 


140         THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

made  his  arrangements  for  her  to  slip  out  of 
this  fantastic  life  without  scandal. 

Well,  she  had  played  up  to  him;  she  had 
never  lifted  a  miserable  face,  imploring  him 
not  to  make  her  suffer  so. 

Something  was  choking  in  her  throat.  She 
had  not  realised  how  utterly  she  must  pass  out 
of  his  life  until  it  struck  her  that  she  would 
never  see  one  of  these  English  flowers.  The 
garden  became  unbearable,  taunting  her  with  its 
unknown  mysteries,  its  hidden  promise;  and 
she  hurried  down  the  weather-stained  wooden 
steps  into  the  park. 

There  were  rabbit  tracks  in  the  grass,  and 
live  things  rustled  in  the  spinney.  A  mat  of 
beech-leaves  kept  the  primroses  warm.  She 
leant  wistfully  over  the  rail,  gazing  down  from 
the  slatted  bridge  at  the  water.  It  was  rushing 
past,  very  deep. 

And  then  she  found  a  snowdrop.     .     .     . 

She  heard  the  dogs  scampering  and  looked 
up. 

"There  you  are,"  said  Barnaby,  putting  his 
arm  through  hers  in  friendly  fashion.  " — 
The  servants,  you  know!"  he  reminded  her  in 
parenthesis,  jerking  his  head  towards  the  dis- 
tant windows.  "Let's  gratify  'em,  poor  souls. 
They'll  like  to  see  us  arm  in  arm." 

He  threw  a  stick  to  the  dogs,  and  they  scur- 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          141 

ried  down  the  bank  to  retrieve  it,  but,  missing 
it,  found  distraction  in  rummaging  for  a  water 
rat.  Then  he  turned  again  to  Susan.  She  had 
plucked  the  snowdrop.  That  at  least  was  given 
to  her.  .  .  . 

"You  looked  like  that  flower,"  he  said,  un- 
expectedly, "when  I  saw  you  first." 

She  answered  him  valiantly. 

"Was  I  so  pale  with  fright!" 

"I  wasn't  thinking  of  that,"  he  said;  "but 
— the  thing  hasn't  been  so  difficult,  has  it,  after 
all?  I  didn't  ask  too  much  of  you?  We  have 
been  good  comrades  and  all  that,  haven't  we, 
Susan  ?  You  have  never  wished —  ? ' ' 

Wished  it  undone?  She  could  not  speak. 
It  was  over.  He  was  going  to  tell  her  that  it 
was  over.  She  thought  of  that  far-off  night  of 
amazement,  of  her  panic-stricken  impulse,  of 
his  hand  on  her  shoulder  that  had  stopped  her 
flight.  .  .  .  Ah,  it  had  been  worth  it  all. 
Passionately  she  was  glad  of  it.  She  had  had 
so  much. 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  have  never  wished — " 
and,  like  him,  she  left  the  words  unfinished. 

And  then,  with  the  past  close  upon  her,  she 
forgot  everything  but  him.  How  she  used  to 
think  of  him,  dream  of  him,  dead,  who  had  come 
to  her  rescue! 

"Oh!"  she  cried  softly,  touching  his  rough 


142          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

tweed  sleeve,  " isn't  it  wonderful  that  you  are 
alive ! ' ' 

They  stood  a  minute  or  two  in  silence,  neither 
speaking,  and  then  Barnaby  broke  the  spell. 

"Why  did  you  wander  down  here  in  all  that 
drenching  grass?"  he  said.  "Your  feet  are 
wet." 

She  began  to  laugh,  helplessly,  and  almost 
against  her  will. 

"How  like  a  man!"  she  said.  "You  all 
think  it  the  direst  calamity  that  can  happen. 
You  remind  me  of  Vernon  Whitford,  who,  when 
the  poor  heroine  was  despairing,  was  prin- 
cipally troubled  because  her  boots  were  damp." 

"I  know,"  said  Barnaby.  "That's  my 
mother's  beloved  book.  She  got  me  to  read  it 
too.  Some  of  it  stumped  me,  but  I  remember 
that  much.  How  did  it  go?"  his  voice  dropped. 
' '  '  He  clasped  the  visionary  little  feet,  to  warm 
them  on  his  breast.'  " 

It  hurt  her  to  feel  her  cheek  burning  scarlet. 
There  was  no  reason.  She  hurried  to  defend 
herself  from  the  wild  fancies  that  might  fill  a 
dangerous  pause. 

"If,"  she  said,  and  it  was  anger  at  herself 
that  made  her  voice  unsteady,  "I  had  thrown 
myself  over  this  bridge  into  the  river,  you 
would  have  cried  out  indignantly — 'She'll  catch, 
cold!'" 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          143 

"I  might,"  he  said  gravely.  "We  are  ma- 
terial wretches.  You  must  come  back  with  me 
and  change  your  stockings." 

He  marched  her  towards  the  house.  One 
startled,  serious  look  he  gave  her,  but  his  voice 
maintained  the  determined  lightness  with 
which  it  was  necessary  to  face  the  realities  of 
their  bargain.  The  funny  side  of  it  was  the 
only  side  that  would  bear  looking  at. 

1 '  You  're  not  impatient  ?  "  he  said.  * '  You  like 
the  hunting?  and  the  life  over  here?  Can  you 
stand  it  a  little  longer?  We'll  clear  as  soon  as 
we  decently  can,  and  think  out  the  tragedy  that 
shall  part  us." 

"Yes,"  she  said;  she  was  a  little  breathless. 
The  windows  yonder  were  winking  flame;  it 
looked  as  if  the  house  was  on  fire,  but  it  was 
only  the  setting  sun.  .  .  . 

"There's  that  horse  my  mother  presented  to 
you,"  he  went  on.  "You  will  have  to  keep  him 
as  a  souvenir.  Hang  him  round  your  neck  in 
a  locket,  what  ? ' ' 

She  could  but  laugh  at  his  whimsical  sug- 
gestion. 

"I'll  keep  nothing,"  she  said.  "An  actress 
doesn't  claim  the  stage  properties;  her  paper 
crown,  her  gilt  goblet,  her  royal  dresses.  Not 
a  poor  strolling  actress  like  me,  at  least. 
Please,  please — "  her  voice  shook  a  little.  He 


144          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

i 

must  be  made  to  understand  so  much,  jest  and 

earnest.  "Let  me  go  out  as  you  snuff  a 
candle. ' ' 

"Will  you?' 'he  said. 

They  had  nearly  reached  the  house;  the 
glancing  windows  that  had  shone  afire  in  their 
eyes  were  dark. 

"I  didn't  come  out  to  plan  tragedies,"  said 
Barnaby.  "I  was  sent  to  fetch  you.  The 
Duchess  is  in  there  with  my  mother.  There's 
the  Hunt  Ball  on  in  a  day  or  two,  and  she 
wants  us  to  dine  and  go  with  her  party.  I 
think  she  has  some  notion  of  keeping  her  eye 
on  you.  She  thinks  that  I  treat  you  badly. ' ' 

Susan  hung  back. 

"Must  I  go?"  she  said. 

"Of  course,"  he  said  cheerily.  "I'd  never 
hear  the  last  of  it  if  I  went  without  you.  And 
my  mother  is  awfully  keen  on  you  eclipsing  the 
rest.  She's  sending  in  to  the  bank  for  all  the 
family  trinkets." 

"I  wonder  you  are  not  afraid  of  my  running 
away  with  them,"  she  flung  at  him  recklessly. 

Barnaby  laughed  at  her  as  one  might  at  a 
foolish  child. 

"Oh,"  he  said.  "I'll  be  there,  mounting 
guard. ' ' 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          145 

The  Duchess  was  lodged  in  a  ramshackle  way 
over  a  shop.  She  was  not  particular.  After 
hiring  all  the  stabling  that  was  to  be  had  in 
Melton,  she  had  packed  herself  into  a  few  odd 
rooms,  approached  by  a  dark  entry  and  a  nar- 
row stair.  It  made  her  feel,  she  said,  like  an 
eagle. 

But  sometimes  her  hospitality  outdid  her  ac- 
commodation. On  the  night  of  the  ball  she  had 
asked  as  many  people  as  could  be  squeezed  into 
her  dining-room;  all  intimate  enough  not  to 
mind  rubbing  elbows;  and  dinner  was  a 
scramble. 

"The  youngest,"  she  proposed,  "shall  sit 
with  his  back  to  the  door,  and  duck  when  the 
plates  are  handed  in  over  his  head.  .  .  . 
Do  be  careful.  I  put  a  little  man  there  last 
year,  but  when  the  door  opened  he  used  to 
chuck  up  his  head  like  a  horse,  and  smashed  no 
end  of  china." 

Having  settled  this,  she  threw  up  a  window 
and  rang  a  bell  violently  up  and  down. 

"That  is  for  dinner,"  she  said.  "It  has  to 
be  cooked  outside,  and  my  people  dawdle  so. 
Would  you  believe  it,  I  was  ten  minutes  ringing 
for  my  maid  when  I  came  in  from  hunting. 
She  lodges  a  few  doors  higher  up,  and  I  had 
quite  a  crowd  in  the  street." 


146          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

"I  remember,"  said  Kilgour,  "last  time  I 
dined  with  you,  one  or  two  bets  were  laid  as  to 
what  was  happening  to  the  soup  in  the  street 
below." 

"Accidents  do  happen,"  she  acknowledged. 
"It  isn't  quite  true,  however,  that  I  stuck  out 
my  head  once  and  caught  them  scooping  up  the 
sauce." 

Susan,  wedged  in  a  corner  between  Kilgour 
and  another  equally  massive  person,  was  puz- 
zled by  the  face  of  a  woman  opposite,  who  was 
smiling  at  her. 

"Don't  you  know  me?"  said  she.  "I  recog- 
nised you  by  the  dress  you  have  on.  I  am 
Melisande." 

She  noticed  the  girl's  bewildered  look  at  her 
yellow  hair. 

"I  keep  a  black  transformation  for  the 
shop,"  she  said.  "My  own  idea.  But  didn't 
you  know  my  nose?  How  dear  of  you  to  for- 
get it.  People  call  it  my  trade  mark,  and  say 
it's  Jewish.  The  worst  is,  I  haven't  really  shut 
up  shop.  I  have  a  young  hedgehog  to  chaperon 
here  to-night.  Oh,  I  am  perfectly  unashamed ! 
— She  is  all  prickles,  but  worth  a  great  deal  of 
money.  I  really  couldn't  bring  her  down  with 
me,  so  she  is  coming  by  herself  in  a  special 
train,  or  some  such  extravagance.  I  thought 
she  might  do  for  Eackham." 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          147 

1 '  What  f ' '  said  Barnaby.  ' '  Aren  't  you  rather 
hard  on  my  cousin!" 

"It  is  because  he  is  your  cousin,"  said 
Melisande,  "I  am  offering  him  the  hedgehog. 
Have  you  ever  considered  what  your  reappear- 
ance meant  to  him?  Don't  we  all  know  how 
hard  up  he  is,  and  what  a  boon  your  inheri- 
tance would  have  been?  If  I  don't  step,  in 
with  my  benefaction  he'll  possibly  murder 
you. ' ' 

' '  Scarcely ! ' '  said  Barnaby. 

"Let  me  see,"  said  Melisande.  "Give  me 
your  hand." 

But  he  would  not. 

"You  will  frighten  my  wife,"  he  said. 

"Give  me  the  glass  he  was  drinking  out  of," 
said  Melisande.  Barnaby 's  neighbour  pushed 
it  over  to  her,  and  she  peered  into  it  with  alarm- 
ing gravity.  Silence  waited  on  her  prediction. 
She  raised  the  glass,  swung  it  round  thrice,  and 
spilt  a  little  water. 

"I've  thrown  out  a  misfortune,"  she  said. 
"A  terrible  misfortune,"  and  looked  round  for 
applause. 

"I  am  eternally  obliged  to  you,"  said  Bar- 
naby. * '  Thanks ! ' '  But  she  would  not  give  up 
his  glass. 

"There  are  strange  things  here,"  she  said, 
clasping  her  hands,  and  gazing  into  it  with  half- 


148          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

shut  eyes.  Barnaby  reached  over  and  cap- 
tured the  glass. 

"We  don't  want  her  to  reveal  all  our  secrets, 
do  we,  Susan?"  he  said,  and  saved  the  situa- 
tion by  drinking  the  secrets  down. 

His  presence  of  mind  turned  the  laugh 
against  Melisande,  whose  expression  was  a 
study.  Ignoring  public  ridicule,  she  affected  to 
meditate  on  his  disturbing  action. 

"I  wish  I  could  remember  what  that  por- 
tends," she  said  solemnly.  "I  rather  think  it 
was  fatal." 

But  Barnaby  refused  to  be  overawed.  He 
was  in  a  mood  of  tearing  gaiety  that  Susan  did 
not  quite  understand.  She  herself,  although 
she  knew  that  it  was  absurd,  had  had  a  super- 
stitious fear  of  that  glass  of  water.  .  .  . 

"Let's  go  on  to  the  ball,"  said  the  Duchess. 

In  the  general  confusion  the  girl  found  her- 
self on  the  stairs  with  Melisande,  still  ruffled. 
Somehow  their  glances  met. 

"Barnaby  would  turn  anything  into  a  joke. 
He  was  always  like  that,"  said  she.  "He 
hasn't  any  sense  of  decorum." 

" — And  you  witches,"  remarked  Kilgour, 
who  was  close  behind,  "haven't  a  sense  of 
humour." 

The  sorceress  pursed  her  lips. 

"Was  there  anything — bad?"  asked  Susan. 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          149 

She  was  ashamed  of  the  foolish  impulse  that 
made  her  ask.  Melisande  looked  at  her  in- 
dulgently. But  her  disclaimer  was  too  hasty 
to  be  convincing.  In  a  way,  it  was  more  dis- 
quieting than  if  she  had  overwhelmed  the 
sinner's  wife  with  evil  prognostications. 

" There  was  nothing  in  it.  Nothing!"  she 
said,  but  her  voice  lacked  conviction. 

"That's  right.  Don't  frighten  us,"  said 
Kilgour. 

Susan  was  not  frightened.  But  she  could 
not  shake  off  an  unaccountable  nervousness ; — - 
could  not  forget  Melisande 's  wild  sayings. 
.  .  .  Why  was  she  afraid  of  Eackham? 

It  was  odd  that  as  soon  as  they  came  into 
the  ballroom  her  eyes  should  light  on  him. 
Everybody  was  arriving  at  once,  jammed  in 
under  the  gallery; — and  Eackham  was  push- 
ing through  the  crowd  to  her  side,  and  she 
could  not  fly. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  said  Barnaby. 
"Why,  you're  trembling1?" 

The  truth  came  out  before  she  could  stop  her- 
self, though  she  could  not  explain  it. 

"I  am  shy,"  she  said.  " — And  I  don't  want 
to  dance  with  your  cousin. ' ' 

He  did  not  scoff  at  her.  He  took  her  pro- 
gramme and  scribbled  his  name  across  it. 

"See,"  he  said.    "Whatever  he  asks  you 


150          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

for,  say  you're  dancing  it  with  me.  How  will 
that  do!  Fill  it  in  with  any  of  the  others,  of 
course,  just  as  you  like ;  and  let  me  know  what 
I  am  booked  for  later." 

He  moved  on  in  the  swaying  throng,  dis- 
tracted by  somebody  signalling  to  him,  hailed 
on  all  sides,  nodding  to  his  friends.  Other 
men  were  surrounding  Susan.  She  could  smile 
at  them  now,  although  Eackham  was  at  her 
side. 

"They're  just  finishing  number  one,"  he 
said.  "Will  you  give  me  number  two?" 

"I  am  dancing  it  with  my  husband." 

"Number  three,  then?" 

"I  am  dancing  it  with  my  husband." 

Another  claimed  her  attention ;  she  gave  him 
a  dance  quickly.  Kilgour,  who  could  not  get 
near  her,  held  up  five  fingers  to  her  above  the 
bobbing  heads  in  the  crowd.  She  counted  them 
gaily,  putting  down  the  number. 

Eackham  was  still  at  her  side,  insisting,  but 
her  answer  was  the  same.  He  looked  at  her 
queerly. 

"You  seem  to  be  dancing  everything,  more 
or  less,  with  your  husband. ' ' 

Kitty  Drake,  floating  in  like  a  smoke  wreath, 
put  in  her  word. 

"A  husband,"  she  said  sapiently,  "is  the 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          151 

only  possible  partner  for  a  frock  like  hers. 
7  always  come  to  the  Melton  Ball  in  rags." 

But  when  Eackham  had  departed,  she  looked 
curiously  at  Susan. 

"You  were  rude  to  him,"  she  whispered. 
"Was  it  the  frock,  or  what?  I  am  safe." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Susan.  "It  is  very 
unreasonable  of  me,  but — I  am  always  a  little 
frightened  when  he  is  near  me. ' ' 

Kitty  seemed  to  think  that  she  understood. 

"Keason?"  she  said.  "My  good  girl,  I've 
known  more  women  wrecked  because  they 
were  ashamed  to  give  in  to  their  frightened 
instincts  than  I  dare  remember.  Don't  begin 
to  reason!  It's  simply  a  machine  for  making 
mistakes;  it  never  mends  them.  Go  and  be 
happy.  Go  and  dance  with  your  husband!" 

Barnaby  had  come  to  her,  and  there  was  pity 
as  well  as  liking  in  Kitty's  little  push. 

"Shall  we  begin?"  he  said,  and  his  arm  went 
round  her  as  she  swung  out  with  him  on  to  the 
shining  floor.  Dimly  she  was  aware  of  music, 
of  lights  and  people;  an  atmosphere  of  en- 
chantment. 

"Tired?"  he  said,  pausing. 

"Tired?  Oh,  no,"  she  panted,  as  if  he  had 
asked  her  the  strangest  question. 

"I  didn't  know  you  could  ride,"  he  said, 


152         THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

"and  I  didn't  know  you  danced.  I  really 
know  very  little  about  you,  Susan. ' ' 

They  had  stopped  a  minute  near  a  ring  of 
idlers  who  had  drifted  on  to  the  floor,  and 
somebody  caught  up  his  words. 

"Have  you  never  danced  with  her  before, 
Barnaby?" 

"No,"  he  said,  and  bent  to  gather  her  train 
himself,  that  the  weight  of  it  should  not  tire 
her  arm. 

"Do  you  hear  that?"  chuckled  the  man  be- 
hind them.  "Never  rode  with  her,  never 
danced  with  her.  What  on  earth  did  he  find 
to  do?" 

"Made  love  to  her,  of  course." 

Susan  felt  his  arm  tighten  round  her  as  they 
whirled  into  the  dizzy  spaces. 

"I've  never  made  love  to  you,  have  I, 
Susan!" 

He  was  breathing  quicker;  her  cheek  almost 
touched  his  as  he  bent  his  head ;  her  pulses  were 
beating  in  tune  with  his.  In  a  sudden  faintness 
she  shut  her  eyes. 

And  then  the  music  crashed  into  silence 
and  she  was  leaning  against  a  pillar,  stupidly 
watching  the  brilliant  scene.  There  was  a 
great  buzz  of  talking  under  the  gallery,  and 
Barnaby  was  turning  to  his  friends.  She 
heard  his  voice  now  and  then  amidst  the  babe!2 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          153 

but  it  was  Kilgour  and  Gregory  Drake  who 
were  trying  to  amuse  her,  picking  out  the  celeb- 
rities, good  and  wicked,  in  that  assembly  of 
glittering  dresses  and  scarlet  coats. 

"You'll  notice, "  Kilgour  was  saying,  "it's 
the  older  men  who  are  dancing,  and  the 
young  'uns  are  looking  on.  They've  no 
stamina,  the  lads!  Do  you  see  that  woman 
like  a  tub,  with  hungry  eyes? — She  was  a 
beauty  once,  but  when  her  admirers  began  to 
slink  off  she  went  in  for  spirits — that  awfully 
unpleasant  kind  that  you  can't  absorb.  She's 
always  calling  'em  up  and  setting  'em  on  to  tell 
tales  about  her  dearest  friends." 

"Yes,"  said  Gregory,  "it's  really  more  un- 
healthy to  offend  her  now  than  when  she  was 
an  anarchist  and  used  to  spring  little  clicking 
machines  on  you  and  offered  to  explain  how 
they  worked.  She  got  into  hot  water  once, 
while  it  lasted,  making  herself  a  side-show  at 
a  bazaar.  Some  foreign  personage  was  attend- 
ing, and  a  rumour  started  that  she  meant  to 
wind  up  her  clock  in  earnest.  It  emptied  the 
hall  like  winking.  The  Board  of  Charitables 
were  no  end  annoyed." 

"They  say  her  fellow  anarchists  begged  her 
to  take  her  name  off  their  books.  Said  she 
brought  'em  into  contempt. ' ' 

"That  wasn't  why,"  said  Gregory.    "It  was 


154          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

because  she  would  bring  Toby,  her  mastiff,  to 
all  their  meetings.  He  and  Biff,  the  thing  she 
carried  in  her  muff,  used  to  scare  'em  out  of 
their  lives." 

"Look  at  that  shop  window!"  said  Kil- 
gour,  as  another  woman,  smothered  in  dia- 
monds, canted  past. 

"American,  isn't  she? — Cummerbatch  mar- 
ried her  for  her  money,  and  of  course  they're 
wretched.  It  never  pays — " 

Susan  was  conscious  that  the  speaker  had 
checked  himself,  in  his  face  a  ludicrous  awk- 
wardness. Had  the  world  jumped  to  a  similar 
conclusion  about  her  and  Barnaby?  Instinc- 
tively she  turned  her  head.  She  wanted  to 
share  the  joke  with  him,  to  see  his  delighted 
appreciation ; — but  he  was  not  near. 

And  he  did  not  dance  with  her  any  more. 
The  night  dragged  on,  and  one  man  after 
another  bent  his  sleek  head  and  offered  her 
his  arm.  All  Barnaby's  friends  were  rallying 
to  her  flag.  Still,  in  its  turn,  would  come  a 
star  in  her  card,  a  dance  that  found  her 
waiting  for  a  partner  who  did  not  come. 

After  one  of  these  blanks  she  came  face  to 
face  with  him  in  the  Lancers.  He  was  romp- 
ing as  violently  as  the  rest,  charging  down  the 
room; — and  as  the  chain  of  dancers  burst  it 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          155 

was  his  arm  that  kept  her  from  falling  into  a 
bank  of  pale  tulips  against  the  wall. 

"Wasn't  the  last  dance  ours?"  he  said. 
"I'm  awfully  sorry: — but  you  are  getting  on 
all  right,  aren't  you?  Plenty  of  substitutes? 
I've  been  watching  them  buzzing  round  you." 

She  smiled  at  him  bravely.  How  like  life 
this  dancing  was  .  .  .  meeting  and  parting, 
and  strange  companions.  .  .  .  For  the  first 
and  last  time  she  was  linking  arms  with 
Julia. 

Later  on  she  saw  Eackham  on  his  way  to 
her.  It  was  almost  the  first  time  that  evening 
that  she  was  unsurrounded.  She  had  felt 
him  watching  her ;  awaiting  his  time  to  swoop. 
Barnaby  had  not  been  visible  during  the  last 
two  dances,  and  this,  alas!  was  one  that  was 
glorified  with  a  star. 

"Yes,"  said  Eackham,  before  she  could 
speak,  "I  know; — you  are  dancing  it  with 
your  husband." 

There  was  no  anger  in  his  voice;  only  a 
kind  -of  sardonic  amusement,  as  if  he  could 
afford  to  forgive  her  for  that  rebuff.  She 
looked  vainly  for  Barnaby. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,"  said  Eackham  coolly, 
"he  has  delegated  his  privilege  to  me." 

"I  am  tired,"  she  said.  It  was  true;  very, 
tired  and  forsaken. 


156          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

"Then  we'll  sit  it  out,"  said  Eackham,  no 
whit  abashed.  He  carried  his  point  over  her 
weariness;  she  wondered  dully  why  she  had 
been  afraid  of  him,  and  she  was  too  sad  to 
struggle.  She  let  Trim  take  her  up  the  stairs 
into  the  far  corner  of  the  gallery,  now  de- 
serted, and  sat  with  her  arms  on  the  rail,  gaz- 
ing absently  on  the  flitting  brightness  that 
mocked  her  wistful  mood  below. 

All  at  once  she  started.  Her  wandering 
thoughts  were  fixed. 

"What  are  you  saying  to  me?"  she  cried. 

Eackham  was  very  near  her,  his  head  bent, 
his  voice  low  and  passionate  in  her  ears. 

"What  I  have  always  wanted  to  say  to  you," 
he  said.  "You  guessed  it,  didn't  you!  You 
were  a  little  afraid  of  me; — just  a  little. 
You've  been  trying  to  put  it  off.  .  .  . 
But  don't  you  remember  the  first  time  we  met 
— and  that  afternoon  down  by  the  spinney, 
when  I  told  you  I  was  your  friend  1 ' ' 

She  began  to  shiver.  His  hand,  shutting  the 
idle  fan,  was  imprisoning  hers  as  it  clenched 
itself  on  her  knee. 

' '  I  was  not  listening  to  you ! ' '  she  cried  des- 
perately. "I  was  not  thinking  of  you.  How 
dare  you?" 

"What  were  you  thinking  of  then!"  said 
Eackham.  "Not  of  Barnaby,  who  has  gone 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          157 

back  to  his  first  love  and  forgotten  that  you 
exist." 

"He  sent  you  to  me,"  she  said  piteously. 

"Oh,  that  was  a  lie,"  said  Eackham.  "He 
didn't  even  trouble  as  much  as  that." 

She  had  sprung  to  her  feet  and  her  face  was 
as  white  as  ashes.  For  how  long  had  this  man 
been  telling  her  that  he  loved  her?  She  had 
been  deaf  to  him,  had  caught  his  words  with- 
out understanding  their  import,  murmuring 
"Yes"  to  him,  while  her  eyes  and  her  heart 
were  searching  for  one  figure  to  pass  in  the 
dizzy  scene  below. 

"You  are  mad,"  she  said. 

"Mad  if  you  like,"  said  Eackham.  "After 
all,  I  am  Barnaby's  cousin,  and  it's  probably 
in  our  blood.  Look  at  him,  still  crazed  over 
a  woman  who  jilted  him  years  ago ! ' ' 

She  flung  up  her  head,  compelled  by  a  pite- 
ous instinct  to  play  her  part. 

"And  I  am  Barnaby's  wife,"  she  said 
bravely. 

He  looked  at  her  fixedly,  making  no  motion 
to  let  her  pass  him. 

"Are  you?"  he  said. 

The  band  seemed  to  burst  into  clamour  and 
die  away;  but  they  were  all  dancing;  there 
must  be  music  still,  although  she  could  not  hear 
anything  but  these  two  syllables.  She  kept  her 


158         THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

eyes  steady.  Perhaps  he  did  not  grasp  the  sig- 
nificance of  his  words. 

"You  have  insulted  me  enough,"  she  said  to 
Mm  slowly. 

A  wild  eagerness  lighted  his  face. 

"I'm  not  insulting  you,"  he  said.  "I  leave 
that  to  him.  .  .  .  I'm  asking  you  to  be  my 
wife,  Susan.  Let  him  go.  Let  him  release 
himself.  Leave  him  to  the  woman  from  whom 
you  can't  keep  him. — Come  away  with  me, — 
and  marry  me!" 

"I — cannot,"  she  said. 

He  had  to  fall  back  then  and  let  her  go. 
But  he  followed  her  down  the  stairs.  The 
light  in  his  eyes  flickered  out,  leaving  a  sullen 
admiration. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  warn  you.  I've  a  bit 
of  a  score  to  settle  with  Barnaby. ' ' 

She  turned  on  him.  She  had  reached  the 
bottom;  her  foot  was  on  the  crimson  carpet 
that  lay  under  the  gallery;  a  little  way  off 
a  handful  of  men  were  talking  with  their  backs 
turned,  hilarious  at  the  climax  of  a  sporting 
tale.  She  looked  at  the  dark  face  above  her; 
her  lips  were  white  now,  her  eyes  were  blazing. 
"Are  you  threatening — him?"  she  cried,  and 
the  devil  in  Eackham  smiled. 

She  took  a  few  rash  steps,  hardly  knowing  in 
what  direction. 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          159 

"You  needn't  look  for  him  here,"  said  Rack- 
ham  bitterly.  "Don't  let  his  friends  think  you 
jealous. " 

From  where,  she  stood  she  could  see  in  at 
the  open  doorway  of  one  of  the  sitting-out 
rooms,  a  dim,  mysterious  haunt  of  palms,  the 
chairs  drawn  back  in  the  shadow.  Was  not 
that  Barnaby  and  a  woman  in  a  glittering  green 
dress,  listening  with  her  face  uplifted — ? 

Ah,  what  right  had  she  to  run  to  him! — 
One  of  the  men  standing  about  under  the  gal- 
lery had  looked  round.  She  heard  him  mutter 
it  was  a  shame.  What  was  a  shame !  Not  any- 
thing that  could  be  spoken  or  done  to  her. 
.  .  .  She  threw  up  her  head,  walking 
straight  on  as  if  she  were  walking  in  her  sleep. 

The  Duchess  and  Kitty  Drake  were  together 
half-way  up  the  room;  they  moved  down  to 
meet  her,  exchanging  looks. 

"My  dear,"  said  the  Duchess  solemnly, 
"you  look  fatigued. " 

"I  am  tired,"  she  said. 

"I  thought  so.  Fagged  out.  You  have 
danced  too  much.  Major  Willes — " 

She  called  a  man  to  her  side  and  sent  him 
on  an  immediate  errand.  When  he  was  gone 
she  returned  to  Susan. 

"I've  sent  somebody  to  fetch  your  husband," 


160         THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

she  said.  "He  ought  to  take  more  care  of  you. 
I  shall  scold  him. ' ' 

"Oh,  don't!"  she  cried  faintly,  but  her 
champions  took  no  notice;  and  soon  Barnaby 
himself  came  swinging  along  the  room. 

"Barnaby,"  said  the  Duchess,  "you  ought 
to  be  ashamed  of  yourself.  Take  your  wife  up 
to  supper." 

The  first  rush  was  over  upstairs  in  the  sup- 
per-room, and  Barnaby  found  a  corner.  She 
sat  with  him  at  a  little  round  table  behind  a  tall 
plant  that  shut  off  the  world  with  its  wide  green 
fronds,  some  sheltering  exotic.  And  he  was 
pouring  out  champagne,  a  drink  she  hated. 
She  put  her  hand  over  the  top  of  the  glass,  and 
he  caught  it  and  lifted  it  off,  holding  it  in  his 
while  he  poured  on  unchecked. 

"It's  not  good  stuff, — but  it's  good  for  you. 
Drink!"  he  said. 

He  seemed  to  be  laughing  at  her  from  an  im- 
measurable distance ;  his  prescription  had  made 
her  dizzy. 

"It  will  go  off  in  a  minute;  you  wanted  it 
badly,"  he  was  saying,  in  a  voice  that  sounded 
far  away  and  unlike  his  own. 

"It  has  gone  to  my  head,"  she  said,  appeal- 
ing to  him.  "I'm  afraid  I  shall  say  something 
silly.  Don't  let  me.  Don't  let  me  talk. 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN         161 

"Why  not?  There  is  nobody  listening,5"  he 
was  saying,  encouraging  her;  amused. 

And  Susan  heard  her  own  voice.  Her  head 
was  spinning;  she  was  talking  against  her  will. 

"Why  did  you  never  come  back  and  dance 
with  me?"  she  was  asking.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  there  was  a  long  pause,  and  then  his  an- 
swer came,  low  and  close. 

"I  did  not  dare,"  he  said. 

"Oh,"  she  said  piteously; — no,  not  she,  but 
the  imprudent,  tired  girl  whose  head  was  giddy, 
and  who  did  not  know  what  she  said.  "Oh, — 
how  funny!" 

Perhaps  he  was  throwing  dust  in  people's 
eyes, — trying  to  blind  them  to  his  fluttering, 
like  a  burnt  moth,  round  Julia.  If  they  saw 
him  sitting  up  here  in  a  corner  with  her,  and 
she  was  happy,  they  would  think  there  was 
nothing  in  it.  He  must  be  trying  to  make  her 
laugh.  Well,  she  must  help  him.  She  could 
say  something  funny  too. 

"There's  a  man  downstairs,"  she  told  him, 
"who  asked  me  to  marry  him." 

"What?"  said  Barnaby.  He  started  as  if 
he  had  been  shot. 

"He  said  he  loved  me,"  she  repeated.  "He 
wished  me  to  go  away  and  release  you  and 
marry  him." 

"Who?" 


162          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

"You  were  with  the  only  woman  yon  ever 
cared  for.  That  was  what  he  said.  I  had  no- 
body to  keep  him  away  from  me.  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  I  was  with  the  woman  I  cared  for,  was 
I?"  he  said.  "And  who  the  devil  is  it  wants 
horsewhipping  when  I  get  at  him!" 

The  deadly  calm  in  his  voice  arrested  her. 
What  had  she  said  to  him,  babbling  in  her  un- 
happiness?  Alarm  steadied  her;  the  dizziness 
was  passing. 

"I  will  not  tell  you,"  she  said,  forgetting 
how  vainly  she  had  looked  for  him  to  shield 
her. 

His  eyes  were  blue  as  steel.  She  had  never 
seen  him  angry  until  to-night. 

"I'll  make  you,"  he  said. 

They  stared  at  each  other  a  minute,  her  eyes 
as  unflinching  as  his  were  hard.  Across  the 
silly  little  supper  table  with  its  glass  and  sil- 
ver, its  green,  gold-tipped  bottles,  and  its 
tumbled  flowers,  he  leaned  and  gripped  her 
hands. 

"Did  you  tell  him  you  are  not  my  wife?" 
he  said. 

There  was  a  whiff  of  scent  in  their  neigh- 
bourhood ;  the  great  green  fronds  spreading  be- 
hind him  were  rudely  stirred.  A  passing 
couple  must  have  brushed  against  that  screen 
on  their  way  to  the  stairs.  A  burst  of  merri- 


"  Did  you  tell  him  you  are  not  my  wife  ?  "  he  said 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          163 

ment  came  from  the  upper  end  of  the  room. 
But  these  two  were  as  much  alone  as  if  it  had 
been  a  desert. 

So  that  was  why  he  was  angry.  He  believed 
that  she  had  broken  faith.  .  .  . 

"I  told  him  nothing,"  she  said. 

Barnaby  took  a  long  breath.  She  felt  his 
grip  relax. 

"You  are  a  good  girl,"  he  said.  "You 
wouldn't  break  your  promise.  I  suppose  I've 
no  right  to  order  you: — I'll  find  him  out  for 
myself.  Tell  me  one  thing,  and  we'll  let  it 
go—" 

She  waited.  There  had  been  something  very 
bitter  to  her  in  his  relief.  All  he  asked  of  her 
was  to  keep  the  secret  until  he  was  tired  of  the 
joke.  .  .  . 

"Susan,"  he  said.  "Did  you  want  to  tell 
him?" 

What  did  that  matter  to  him?  Supposing 
she  had — wanted?  Supposing  she  would  have 
given  worlds  to  exchange  her  difficult  post  for 
one  so  different,  so  secure  ? — Her  cheek  burned. 

"I  would  sooner  have  died,"  she  said. 

Rackham  stood  under  the  gallery  in  a  black 
mood,  watching  the  Duchess  send  her  messen- 
ger to  hunt  out  the  missing  husband.  He  saw 
Julia,  bereft  of  her  cavalier,  pausing  uncer- 


164          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

tainly;  and  a  satiric  impulse  moved  him  to  join 
her. 

"Come  and  have  supper  with  me,"  he  said. 

"I  am  engaged  to  Barnaby,"  she  said,  a  lit- 
tle defiantly. 

" They've  sent  him  up  with  his  wife,"  he 
retorted,  and  his  mocking  tone  seemed  to  please 
her.  She  submitted  and  pressed  his  arm. 

"Poor  Barnaby!"  she  said.  "It's  an  awful 
muddle." 

She  was  looking  very  lovely  and  pathetic. 
The  man  who  had  once  been  entangled  a  little 
way  in  her  toils  himself  and,  having  failed  to 
succumb,  was  naturally  inclined  to  despise  her, 
admired  her  pose.  It  was  hardly  to  be  won- 
dered at  if  Barnaby,  who  had  been  mad  about 
her  once,  should  be  incapable  of  resisting  the 
allurement  of  these  dark  eyes,  so  deep  and  so 
reproachful.  He  could  not  help  speculating 
how  far  she  was  in  earnest,  and  how  far  a 
hurt  vanity  inspired  her.  Curiosity  piqued 
him. 

"I  understand,"  he  said  gravely,  as  they 
passed  out  and  began  to  climb  to  the  supper- 
room.  It  amused  him  to  feel  that  her  con- 
fidential attitude,  her  claim  on  his  sympathy, 
was  a  subtle  intimation  that  he  had  been  the 
unlucky  cause  of  the  fatal  misunderstanding, 
and  must  therefore  be  kind  to  her.  All  at  once 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          165 

lie  had  a  perverse  inclination  to  cast  himself 
in  the  scale  again.  Why  not?  It  would  be 
a  bitter  joke  on  Barnaby,  and  it  suited  his 
savage  humour. 

"I  like  your  dress,"  he  said.  His  change  of 
tone  surprised  her.  She  glanced  at  him  swiftly, 
half-turning  as  she  mounted,  her  green  gar- 
ments rippling  as  she  lifted  her  train  on  one 
smooth  arm,  displaying  a  whirl  of  skirts  and 
one  little  green  sequin  slipper.  "Ah,"  she 
said,  "down  below  they've  been  reviling  me 
for  a  mermaid,  and  complaining  bitterly  of 
my  tail." 

"And  so,"  said  Eackham,  "the  little  slipper 
is  betrayed,  to  dispel  the  illusion!" 

"Perhaps,"  said  Julia.  She  used,  at  one 
time,  to  smile  up  in  his  face  like  that.  .  .  . 
A  vindictive  sense  of  his  power  possessed  him, 
flattering  him  on  this  night  of  defeat.  In  his 
heart  he  was  still  fiercely  worshipping  the  pale 
girl  who  had  flouted  him,  clinging  obstinately — 
Oh,  she  was  a  fool,  and  so  was  Barnaby; — and 
the  irony  of  it  was  that  he  had  only  to  lift  Ms 
finger — ! 

"We'll  find  a  place  by  ourselves,"  he  said, 
confidentially,  passing  into  the  room.  Inside  it 
he  took  a  step  or  two,  glancing  about  him. 
There  were  vacant  seats  on  the  right,  but  the 
tables  had  a  battered  air.  Further  down, 


166         THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

perhaps — ;  yes,  further  down,  near  the  wall. 
He  turned  back  to  look  for  his  partner,  and  the 
sight  of  her  face  amazed  him.  With  a  prompt- 
itude, that  surprised  himself  he  pulled  her 
back,  and  got  her  outside  the  room.  Was  Jt 
possible  that  he  had  been  mistaken  in  her,  or 
could  a  woman  push  affectation  as  far  as 
that? 

She  broke  into  a  kind  of  gasping  exclamation 
that  was  not  intelligible  at  first,  and  he  stared 
at  her  in  limitless  amazement. 

"Oh,  poor  Barnaby,  oh,  poor  Barnaby!"  she 
repeated.  There  was  a  ring  of  triumph  in  her 
incoherent  voice.  She  had  gone  mad,  he 
fancied. 

1 '  Hush ! "  he  said.    ' '  They  '11  hear  you. ' ' 

He  was  glad  he  had  shut  that  door,  and 
thankful  there  was  not  a  soul  on  the  stairs. 

"I  was  right!"  she  said,  "I  was  right. 
.  .  .  I  knew  it!  You  were  there  when  she 
came  here  first  as  his  widow,  and  I  told  his 
mother  to  her  face  it  was  a  wicked  plot!" 

"Julia,"  said  Rackham,  "you  don't  know 
what  you  are  saying." 

She  controlled  herself  a  little.  He  held  her 
wrist. 

"Didn't  you  see  them  in  there?"  she 
asked.  "Didn't  you  hear  him?" 

"If  you  mean  Barnaby,"  he  said,  "I  was 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          167 

looking  out  for  our  places.  I  didn't  notice 
whereabouts  they  were  till  you  clutched  at  me. 
They  didn't  see  us  at  all." 

"I  heard  him,"  she  said,  in  the  same  wild 
key  of  triumph.  "I  heard  his  own  words. — 
He  said  she  was  not  his  wife." 

"Hush!"  said  Eackham  vehemently,  and 
then,  more  slowly — "  Julia,  are  you  sure  of 
that?" 

She  tried  to  imitate  him,  to  whisper,  but 
she  was  too  excited. 

"Sure!"  she  said,  laughing  hysterically. 
"I  know  his  voice  so  well.  There  was  a  green 
plant  between  us — " 

"Wait,"  said  Eackham.  "There's  some- 
body coming.  We'll  go  down.  Damn!  there 
are  people  everywhere — !  Get  a  shawl,  and 
we'll  go  out  into  the  street." 

Julia  resisted  him. 

"Why  are  you  dragging  me  away?"  she  re- 
belled. "You  can't  keep  me  quiet.  Think  how 
I've  been  treated!  I  could  scream  it  to  all  the 
world!" 

A  woman  could  not  have  silenced  her,  but 
her  emotional  nature  yielded  finally  to  the 
rough  coaxing  of  a  man.  He  almost  swung  her 
downstairs  into  the  draughty  passage  and, 
raiding  the  ladies'  cloakroom,  snatched  up 
the  first  wrap  that  lay  to  his  hand. 


168          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

A  chill  wind  blew  up  the  steps,  but  there 
was  still  a  persistent  crew  of  gazers  loiter- 
ing in  the  street  below.  Rackham  led  her  past, 
and  they  strolled  a  little  way  into  the  darkness, 
lighted  at  intervals  by  a  twinkling  lamp.  There 
was  no  danger  there  of  her  making  scenes. 

"Now,"  he  said.    "Now,  Julia — !" 

"They  shall  all  hear  the  truth!"  she  cried. 
She  hung  on  his  arm,  gesticulating. 

"You  wouldn't  betray  him?"  said  Back- 
ham,  sounding  her. 

"Him?"  she  said.  "Poor  Barnaby!  He 
and  I  are  the  victims.  Don't  you  understand 
yet?  When  she  thought  he  was  dead  his 
mother — just  to  crush  me,  just  to  humble  me 
in  the  dust! — hired  this  creature.  Don't  you 
remember  how  she  sprung  her  on  us?  Who 
had  heard  of  a  marriage?  Oh,  it  was  a  judg- 
ment on  her  when  he  came  home!" 

"She'd  hardly  look  at  the  case  in  that 
light,"  he  said.  But  Julia  was  impervious 
to  irony. 

"He  should  have  considered  me  first,"  she 
said.  "Why  do  men  always  sacrifice  the  one 
they  love  best?  It's  a  kind  of  cruel  unself- 
ishness. I  was  his  dearest,  a  part  of  himself, 
and  so — and  so  I'm  to  bear  this  trial — !  But 
he  might  have  trusted  me!" 

She  was  either  laughing  or  sobbing,  he  was 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          169 

not  sure  which;  the  cloak  that  muffled  her  hid 
her  face;  but  her  voice  raged  on,  half  furious, 
half  triumphant. 

"Of  course,  she's  blackmailing  him,"  she 
said.  "That  wretch  has  got  him  in  the  hollow 
of  her  hand!  If  he  disowned  her  it  would  all 
come  out,  and  it  would  disgrace  his  mother. 
He  was  always  quixotic.  And  so  he  is  tem- 
porising till  he  can  bribe  her  to  disappear. 
But  Lady  Henrietta  has  no  claim  on  my  for- 
bearance!" 

She  had  to  pause  for  breath,  and  he  managed 
to  get  in  his  word. 

"I  am  going  to  advise  you,"  he  said,  "to 
keep  quiet  over  this." 

They  had  come  to  the  end  of  the  street,  and 
were  walking  back.  A  dazzle  of  lights  in  the 
distance  marked  the  Corn  Exchange.  A  motor 
whirred  past,  its  lamps  sending  a  brief  glare 
that  was  like  a  searchlight.  Already  a  few 
were  leaving. 

"Why?"  she  said,  staring  at  him. 

"You'll  be  a  fool  if  you  talk,"  he  said.  "If 
Barnaby  is  holding  his  tongue  for  his  mother's 
sake,  is  it  likely  he'll  give  way?  And  you  have 
no  proofs.  Whatever  you  say,  he'll  deny  it. 
He  mightn't  forgive  you,  either.  Be  sensible. 
.  .  .  Wait  a  bit,  and  I'll  make  inquiries." 

It  struck  her  then  as  odd  that  he  had  ac- 


170          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

cepted  her  words  himself,  without  argument, 
with  no  incredulous  opposition,  such  as  she 
was  beginning  to  realise  must  fall  to  her  lot  if 
she  published  her  tale  abroad. 

"Did  you  know  from  the  first?"  she 
cried. 

"No,"  said  Eackham,  "I  didn't  know.  But 
I  guessed." 

They  had  nearly  reached  the  steps,  and  he 
slackened,  regarding  her  narrowly ;  but  already 
she  was  subdued.  It  was  characteristic  of  her 
that  she  had  never  seen  his  admiration  for  the 
impostor.  Vast  as  her  imagination  was,  it  was 
blinded  by  centring  on  herself. 

* '  And  you  '11  help  me  I  You  are  on  my  side  ? ' ' 
she  said. 

He  knew  then  that  he  had  prevailed. 

"As  long  as  you  are  wise,"  he  said.  They 
went  up  the  steps  together. 

"I  had  better  find  my  party,"  she  said 
hurriedly.  "I  want  to  go  home.  Poor  Bar- 
naby! — I  can't  bear  to  meet  him.  I  am  too 
agitated." 

Eackham  took  back  the  borrowed  cloak  and 
strolled  along  the  passage,  in  no  hurry  to 
return  to  the  ballroom.  People  were  passing 
in  and  out;  some  of  them  were  saying  good- 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          171 

night,  and  one  pair  were  wrangling  on  their 
way  to  the  door. 

"Who  was  the  man  you  were  flirting  with  in 
the  street?"  said  the  lover  in  an  angry  stutter. 
The  lady  scoffed. 

"What  a  story!" 

"My  brother  saw  you  go  out.  He  came  up 
and  chaffed  me." 

"Your  brother  is  a  donkey.  It  must  have 
been  someone  else. ' ' 

"I  tell  you  he  recognised  you  by  that  chiffon 
fal-lal  you  wear!" 

Eackham  stood  on  one  side.  Let  them  fight 
it  out.  .  .  .  Then  his  mouth  hardened. 
What  was  he  going  to  do  ?  He  had  managed  to 
prevent  Julia  from  spoiling  it  all,  and  as  long 
as  he  could  keep  her  quiet  the  cards  were  in  his 
hands. 


CHAPTER  IX 

"I  WON'T  let  you  go  home,"  said  the  Duchess. 
41  Barnaby  can  do  as  he  likes,  but  you're  too 
tired  to  mind  sleeping  in  a  cupboard." 

She  held  Susan  firmly  by  the  arm  as  she 
spoke;  she  had  motives.  Barnaby  deserved 
to  be  punished;  his  conduct  with  Julia  had 
really  been  scandalous.  But  a  worn-out  girl, 
a  wisp  of  white  satin,  was  no  match  for  a 
naughty  husband.  She  would  burst  into  tears 
and  forgive  him.  Let  Barnaby  go  home  by 
himself,  feeling  guilty,  and  brood  upon  his  un- 
kindness.  She  would  tell  Susan  what  to  do  to 
him  in  the  morning. 

With  rough  kindness  she  hustled  the  girl 
away  with  her,  and  having  collected  her  party, 
ordered  them  to  bed. 

"Because,"  she  said,  "until  some  of  you 
are  disposed  of  I  can't  tell  what  to  do  with  the 
others,  and  I  want  to  know  if  there  are  beds 
enough  to  go  round." 

Susan  was  the  first  to  be  bundled  into  her 
attic,  and  lay  wearily  listening  to  a  far-off: 
commotion.  When  at  last  the  household  had 
settled  down  there  was  a  fresh  disturbance,  and 

172 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN         173 

the  elder  of  the  two  foreign  maids  mounted, 
carrying  an  armful  of  pillows. 

The  Duchess  herself  followed,  to  excuse  the 
indicated  invasion.  She  was  already  in  her 
dressing-gown.  The  maid  set  up  a  chair  bed 
that  had  stood,  doubled  up,  in  the  corner,  and 
was  sent  out  of  the  room  for  a  minute. 

"I've  come  to  apologise,"  said  the  Duchess, 
"for  pitchforking  a  stranger  into  your  room 
like  this;  but  I'm  sorry  for  the  woman.  You 
are  the  only  one  of  them  I  can  depend  on  not 
to  be  horrid  to  her.'* 

She  looked  round,  measuring  the  space  that 
was  to  be  shared.  "I  hope,"  she  said,  "you 
won't  bump  into  each  other.  The  truth  is, 
I  have  a  shocking  custom  of  sticking  my  head 
out  of  the  window  when  something  is  going 
on  outside;  and  just  as  I  was  getting  into  bed 
I  heard  a  tremendous  buzzing.  Everybody 
must  have  started.  If  this  was  somebody's 
motor  gone  wrong,  I  supposed  I  ought  to  offer 
my  hospitality.  And  it  was.  The  chauffeur 
was  grovelling;  a  man  I  knew  was  storming 
at  him;  and  a  woman  wringing  her  hands  on 
the  pavement.  I  knew  her  too,  perfectly,  and 
she  had  no  business  in  that  man's  car." 

She  stopped  to  listen. 

"I  am  not,"  she  said,  "a  universal  mender. 
If  people  I  don't  particularly  care  about  are 


174         THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

jumping  out  of  frying-pans,  I  don't  preach  at 
them  eternal  fire.  But  this  fool  of  a  woman 
had  chosen  to  bolt  under  my  very  nose. 
Providence  had  cast  her  upon  my  doorstep. 
So  I  took  the  hint.  Not  being  a  heathen  I 
really  had  to." 

The  confidential  maid  was  ascending  with 
someone  strange  to  the  place,  who  stumbled 
and  chattered  in  halting  French. 

"I  poked  my  head  farther  out,"  said  the 
Duchess,  "and  shouted — 'Is  that  you,  Lady 
Cummerbatch?  Have  you  had  a  breakdown  T 
and  it  was  worth  it  to  see  her  jump.  I  don't 
in  the  least  know  what  she  answered;  it 
sounded  hysterical.  'Well,'  I  said,  'leave 
your  husband  to  tinker  up  the  machine;  it 
will  probably  take  him  hours.  I  can  put  you 
up.'  " 

"Her  husband?"  said  Susan,  puzzled. 

"Tact,  my  child,  tact!  I  sent  Fifine  down 
to  fetch  her,  and  kept  my  eye  on  him.  She 
followed  Fifine  into  the  house  like  a  lamb." 

She  wrapped  her  dressing-gown  closer  round 
her,  and  prepared  to  depart. 

"I  couldn't  keep  her  in  my  room,"  she 
said;  "I've  two  girls  camping  on  the  floor. 
Besides,  she  would  begin  confessing  every- 
thing, and  I  am  certain  that  I  should  smack 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN         175 

her.  Pretend  that  you  are  asleep.  If  she 
cries,  don't  notice.  Good  night,  my  child." 

She  patted  Susan  on  the  head,  looking  as  if 
she  would  have  kissed  her,  but  not  being  ac- 
customed to  caresses,  did  not  quite  know  how. 

Then  she  wheeled  round  to  receive  the  late 
visitor,  holding  up  her  finger,  and  crying — » 
"Hush!"  very  loud. 

Susan  lay  with  her  face  turned  from  the 
light  and  her  eyes  shut,  as  she  had  been  bid- 
den. She  heard  Fifine,  after  some  careful 
whispering,  close  the  door  and  make  her  way 
down ;  she  heard  a  smothered  sobbing  from  the 
improvised  bed  that  almost  blocked  the  cham- 
ber;— and  then  she  heard  a  stealthy  noise  in 
the  room,  and  opened  her  eyes.  On  the  wall 
she  could  see  the  shadow  of  a  person  strug- 
gling into  her  clothes,  and  evidently  about  to 
fly.  Some  instinct  made  the  girl  spring  up 
and  fling  herself  against  the  door. 

"Oh!  Oh!"  said  the  strange  woman,  totter- 
ing. "Let  me  out!" 

Susan  looked  her  in  the  face. 

"If  you  want  to  go,"  she  said,  "I  will  call 
the  Duchess." 

The  stranger  began  to  cry.  She  was  thin 
and  fair,  with  a  faded  skin  and  unhappy  eyes, 
outstared  by  a  blaze  of  jewels.  Susan  re- 


176          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

membered  seeing  her  at  the  ball.    Kilgour  had 
called  her  the  Shop  Window. 

"He's  waiting  for  me.  I  must  go  with 
him,"  she  cried,  worked  up  to  a  pitch  of  agita- 
tion that  deprived  her  of  self-control. 

"You  shall  not,"  the  girl  said. 

They  both  heard  .an  engine  vibrating  far 
down  below.  The  woman  flew  to  the  window. 
And  then  the  Duchess's  strident  voice  struck 
into  the  night  from  her  own  window  under- 
neath. 

"So  glad  the  motor  is  working.  Don't 
trouble  about  your  wife,  Sir  Eichard.  She's 
safely  tucked  up  in  bed." 

Then  a  furious  backing  and  grinding,  as  the 
car  started  and  rushed  away  into  the  darkness, 
baulked  of  a  passenger. 

Susan  retired  sedately  into  bed,  since  it  was 
no  longer  necessary  to  guard  the  door.  The 
woman  began  to  strip  off  her  jewels,  that  she 
had  put  on  again,  anyhow, — flinging  them  in 
a  heap  on  the  table. 

"Absurd,  isn't  it?"  she  said,  in  a  high,  un- 
natural key,  "wearing  all  these  .  .  .  but 
I  wasn't  going  to  leave  them  behind." 

The  girl  said  nothing;  she  was  embarrassed. 

"The  Duchess  took  him  for  Dicky,"  the 
prisoner  rambled  on.  Perhaps  she  was  afraid 
of  silence.  "You  guessed  the  truth.  I  saw 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          177 

you  at  the  ball  to-night.  They  were  all  talking 
about  you,  and  I  liked  your  diamonds.  Did 
your  husband  marry  you  for  your  money?" 

Susan  drew  a  sharp  breath.  Ah,  this 
woman  was  more  to  be  pitied  than  she,  who 
had  brought  sorrow  upon  herself. 

"Oh,  you  poor  thing!"  she  said  softly,  sit- 
ting up  in  bed  and  clasping  her  hands  round 
her  knees. 

Lady  Cummerbatch  was  one  of  those  lucky 
women  who  find  solace  in  lamentation.  They 
are  the  fortunate  ones,  whose  bitterness  of 
heart  can  be  dissipated  in  bitter  speech. 

"  I've  heard,"  she  went  on,  too  distracted 
about  her  own  plight  to  be  conscious  of  the 
rank  impertinence  of  which  she  was  being 
guilty.  "I've  heard  all  about  your  husband. 
He's  the  wild  Barnaby  Hill  who  was  jilted  by 
an  Irishwoman  and  disappeared  and  married 
abroad  to  vex  her,  and  then  turned  up  after  his 
people  thought  him  dead.  You're  an  Ameri- 
can too,  though  you  are  not  my  kind.  They 
seem  fond  of  you  here ;  they  all  take  your  part ; 
— but  what  difference  does  it  make?  Aren't 
we  two  miserable  women?" 

She  began  to  weep  noisily,  and  then  to 
shiver.  Getting  into  bed,  she  pulled  her  fur 
cloak  over  her  shoulders,  and  sat  hunched  up, 
staring  at  the  light. 


178         ,THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

"Do  you  mind  my  not  putting  out  the 
candle?"  she  said.  "I  can't  bear  to  lie  wor- 
rying in  the  dark.  If  that  auto  hadn't  stuck, 
and  the  Duchess  hadn't  jumped  me  when  I 
got  out  to  see  what  was  the  matter,  I'd  have 
been  out  of  my  misery.  ...  I  said  to  Sir 
Richard  once — 'You  married  me  for  my 
money,'  and  he  laughed  in  my  face  and  said — 
'My  good  young  woman,  you  had  an  equivalent 
— you  married  me  for  my  title.'  And  then  I 
just  screamed,  'I  married  you  for  your  title! 
Oh,  yes,  I  married  you  for  your  title!'  till  he 
banged  himself  out  of  the  house." 

"But  if  that  was  not  true — "  said  Susan. 

"True?  It  was  all  true,"  she  sobbed. 
"The  pity  was  it  didn't  keep  true.  When  I 
married  that  man  I  couldn't  have  told  you  if 
his  eyes  were  grey  or  green.  But  there — ! 
It  wears  off  with  them  and  it  wears  on  with 
us." 

In  her  lamentation  she  continued  to  identify 
herself  with  her  compatriot;  their  common 
misfortune,  as  she  conceived  it,  was  mixed  up 
in  her  bewailing. 

"Why  don't  you  try  it,  like  me?"  she  said. 
"Why  don't  you  run  away  from  him?  If  you 
cry  and  stamp  and  bluster  it  makes  them 
vain,  but  when  they've  lost  you  outright  they 
miss  you.  .  .  .  Oh,  it's  awful  to  live  with 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          179 

a  man  and  watch  him  getting  impatient  be- 
cause you  are  in  his  way  and  he's  tied  to  you; 
— to  see  him  looking  hard  at  you,  thinking 
how  could  he  have  paid  the  price !  He  tried  to 
be  civil  at  first,  but  his  face  soon  taught  me. 
...  I  wonder  how  long  were  you  de- 
ceived?" 

"I  was  never  deceived,"  said  Susan,  hardly 
knowing  she  had  uttered  that  sigh  aloud. 
Her  arms  were  round  the  other  woman  now; 
a  poor  wretch  who  had  once  been  happy.  Ah, 
with  what  pain  would  she  not  have  gladly 
purchased  some  mirage  of  happiness,  some 
illusion  that  she  was  his  .  .  .  and  be- 
loved .  .  .  for  half  an  hour! 

The  haggard  butterfly  who  had  been  cursed 
with  riches  dropped  her  voice  from  its  wailing 
tune  to  a  whisper. 

"I'm  going  to  France  to-morrow,"  she  said. 
"He  won't  like  that.  It  will  be  the  same  as 
striking  him  in  the  face.  He  to  turn  from  me 
to  other  women  who  had  no  money  to  give 
him — !  When  a  man  sees  that  what  he  has 
tossed  in  the  gutter  is  precious  to  another  man, 
when  he  sees  how  the  other  man  picks  it  up, — 
he  feels  cheated.  It  hits  him  harder  than  if 
you  had  killed  yourself.  I  thought  of  that 
first.  But  don't  you  do  it!  I  knew  just  how 
he'd  say — 'Mad!  quite  mad!'  and  bury  me  and 


180          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

forget  me.  He'll  never  lose  sight  of  it  if  I 
go  away  like  this — "  and  her  voice  rose  high 
— "that  will  let  him  know  how  I  hate  him!" 

But  when  her  confidences  had  tired  her  out, 
and  she  loosed  her  clasp  of  Susan,  pulling  up 
the  quilt  and  sinking  into  a  wearied  slumber, — 
when  the  girl  lay  gazing  alone  at  a  light  that 
was  burning  dim; — there  Was  a  cry  in  the 
silence. 

"I've  come  back,  Dicky!  Dicky,  let  me 
in — !  I  've  come  back. ' ' 

It  was  the  woman  who  hated  her  husband, 
calling  to  him  in  her  sleep. 

Susan  awakened  in  the  morning  with  music 
in  her  ears.  Dreaming,  she  danced  with 
Barnaby,  and  his  arm  was  round  her,  his 
breath  quick  on  her  cheek,  his  face  not  .  .  * 
kind. 

And  as  the  wild  illumination  of  a  dream 
sometimes  teaches  what  a  stumbling  con- 
sciousness dare  not  know,  so  the  girl  awoke 
trembling. 

But  that  dream  of  all  dreams  was  madness. 

Into  her  waking  mind  came  the  thought  of 
Eackham,  the  man  who  had  said  he  loved  her. 
Had  she  not  always  been  ill  at  ease  with  him, 
and  what  was  that  but  a  warning  instinct, 
divining,  shrinking  from  the  peril  in  a  man's 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          181 

admiration?  But  Barnaby  and  she  had  been 
such  good  comrades.  .  .  . 

Quaint  incidents  crowded  on  her,  scenes  in 
the  hunting  field,  Sunday  afternoons  at  the 
stables, — the  day  he  had  cut  his  finger  and  she 
had  run  to  him  to  bind  it  up ; — the  day  he  had 
told  her  the  brim  of  her  riding  hat  was  too 
narrow,  and  made  her  try  on  another  that 
satisfied  his  inspection.  .  .  .  Oh,  they  had 
honourably  tried  not  to  haunt  each  other,  but 
all  the  same.  .  .  .  Dear  and  safe  memo- 
ries; they  blotted  out  last  night. 

She  raised  herself  on  her  elbow  and  looked 
across  the  room  at  the  runaway. 

So  a  woman  could  sleep  whom  the  casual 
kindness  of  an  acquaintance  had  saved  from 
shipwreck;  so  a  woman  could  sleep  who  had 
poured  out  her  soul  to  a  stranger. 

Someone  was  tapping  at  the  door.  It  was 
late.  Ten,  eleven,  ah,  quite  that;  and  Mon- 
sieur had  come  for  Madame  and  brought  her 
clothes.  And  Miladi  said  Madame  was  to 
dress  in  her  room,  as  one  was  so  cramped  up 
here. 

The  maid  waited  discreetly  at  the  door,  her 
sharp,  foreign  eyes  taking  in  everything,  the 
other  woman  huddled  up  in  bed,  her  clothes 
flung  all  over  the  floor,  her  gems  scattered 
recklessly  on  the  table. 


182          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

Susan  slipped  on  the  dressing-gown  that  had 
been  brought  her,  and  was  following,  Fifine 
going  down  in  front  as  a  picket,  to  see  that  the 
coast  was  clear;  when  she  heard  her  neighbour 
calling.  Lady  Cummerbatch  was  sitting  up 
in  bed. 

"I  made  a  fool  of  myself  last  night,  didn't 
I?"  she  said.  "Why  didn't  you  smother  me 
with  my  pillow?  Don't  be  afraid,  I'm  as  wise 
as  an  old  hen  this  morning."  She  pulled  the 
girl  close  enough  to  kiss.  "You  are  a  dear; 
you  are  a  dear!"  she  cried. 

Stretching  out  her  arm  to  the  dressing- 
table,  she  caught  up  something  from  its  disor- 
dered glitter,  squeezing  it  into  Susan's  hand. 

"Keep  it,"  she  said.  "I  know  you've 
heaps  of  your  own.  I  saw  them  last  night. 
But  I  want  you  to  have  something  to  remember 
me  by.  I  can  do  nothing  for  anybody  but 
give  them  things.  .  .  .  Do!  Please  me! 
I'd  have  thrown  myself  out  of  that  window  if 
you  hadn't  been  kind  to  me." 

The  girl  looked  doubtfully  at  the  diamond 
star  that  had  been  thrust  upon  her. 

"If  you  don't  care  to  wear  anything  I've 
worn,"  said  the  woman,  "put  it  by.  Who 
knows  ?  Some  day  you  may  be  glad  to  have  it. 
If  it  does  come  from  a  worthless  creature,  it's 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          183 

fit  to  sell.  I've  heard  of  rich  women  whose 
husbands  ruined  them,  and  who  had  to  pawn 
their  jewels.  .  .  .  How  do  we  know  what 
will  happen  to  you  and  me?" 

Susan  went  down  the  irregular  flight  of 
stairs.  The  Duchess  was  waiting  in  her  room 
for  a  word. 

"Good  morning,  my  child, "  she  said. 
"Your  husband  has  very  properly  come  to 
fetch  you.  I  should  advise  you  to  let  him  off 
lightly  about  last  night." 

The  maid  had  gone  out  of  the  room. 

"About— !"  faltered  Susan. 

"Philandering  with  Julia.  I  believe  in 
severity,  of  course,"  said  the  Duchess  bluntly, 
"but  as  a  matter  of  fact  Kitty  and  I  have 
been  at  him  like  early  birds.  Told  him  what 
we  thought  of  him,  and  so  forth.  Don't  look 
so  sorry.  It's  done  him  good,  and  you  can 
descend  upon  him  like  a  forgiving  saint." 

"I  have  nothing  to  forgive  him,"  the  girl 
protested.  "Oh,  I  wish  you  would  not  say 
that." 

The  Duchess  smiled  benevolently  at  her 
stammering  haste.  She  fancied  she  under- 
stood. 

"I  quite  forgot,"  she  said,  "to  ask  after  that 
idiot  upstairs.  There's  a  woman  who  tried  to 


184          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

enrage  her  husband  into  paying  her  more 
attention  by  making  herself  conspicuous  with 
another  man.  Bad  policy,  my  child.  It 
makes  the  man  think  less  of  her,  though  it  may 
alarm  his  possessive  instinct; — and,  of  course, 
if  anybody  stole  your  old  coat  you'd  feel  in- 
clined to  knock  him  down: — but  that  wouldn't 
make  you  believe  it  was  as  good  as  new.  No, 
no,  it's  a  fallacious  notion.  However,  we're 
talking  of  this  person.  I'd  be  sorry  for  her 
feelings  if  I  didn't  think  the  shock  of  being 
stopped  on  the  brink  would  bring  her  to  her 
senses.  We  are  very  good-natured  among 
ourselves,  but  she  wouldn't  find  it  easy  to  live 
it  down.  She  isn't  one  of  us." 

She  smiled  encouragingly  at  the  girl,  who 
was  wrapped  in  her  own  dressing-gown,  a 
thick  masculine  garment  that  sat  oddly  on  her 
slimness. 

"People  think,"  she  said,  "that  we  hunt- 
ing people  are  a  lawless  band.  They  think 
they  can  come  and  do  as  they  like  in  Melton. 
Just  because  we  have  a  sporting  sense  of 
loyalty  to  each  other,  and  stick  to  our  friends 
when  they  need  us.  If  you  or  Barnaby,  for 
example,  did  anything  outrageous,  we'd  scold 
you  a  little  and  let  it  drop.  But  we  don't  do  it 
with  an  outsider.  .  .  .  He's  brought  your 
habit.  Get  into  your  things,  my  dear." 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          185 

Barnaby  nodded  to  her  cheerfully  as  she 
came  into  the  breakfast  room.  He  was  sitting 
on  the  window  seat,  and  the  rest  of  them  were 
at  breakfast.  Whether  or  no  they  had  been 
attacking  him,  he  did  not  look  cast  down. 

"Well,  how  are  you?"  he  said.  "Good 
girl,  you  are  coming  hunting.  I  brought 
everything,  didn't  II  They  nearly  left  out 
your  boots." 

"Look  out  and  see  who  that  is  passing," 
said  the  Duchess.  Someone  was  cracking  a 
whip  below.  He  flung  up  the  window,  and  she 
came  round  herself. 

"What's  the  matter?"  she  said.  "Is  it  a 
serenade,  or  do  you  want  some  coffee?" 

A  man  with  a  long  nose  and  a  grizzling 
moustache  had  halted  on  his  way  up  the  street. 
Two  or  three  others  had  left  him  and  were 
trotting  on. 

"Have  you  heard  the  latest?"  he  said. 
"Kichard  Cummerbatch  is  drawing  all  the 
covers  like  a  raging  maniac,  roaring  for  his 
wife.  Her  party  went  back  in  two  cars  from 
the  ball  last  night,  and  each  lot  thought  she 
had  gone  in  the  other.  It  appears  she's 
bolted." 

"Upon  my  word,"  said  the  Duchess,  "if 
you  are  going  to  shout  scandal  at  the  top  of 
your  voice  I  shall  have  to  put  up  my  shutters. 


186          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

She  is  just  over  your  head,  Major.  She  had 
nowhere  to  go,  since  her  party  went  off  with- 
out her;  so  I  took  her  in." 

"Hey?  What?"  he  said,  looking  up  as 
quickly  as  if  the  lady  were  a  chimney-pot 
that  might  fall  on  him.  " — Keep  still,  horse! 
You  don't  say  so?" 

His  face  was  blank  for  an  instant,  but  he 
soon  recovered  from  his  disappointment.  His 
well  of  gossip  had  not  run  dry. 

Cocking  his  head  on  one  side  like  a  mis- 
chievous old  bird,  he  began  on  another  tack. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "if  you're  so  rough  on 
scandal,  you'll  have  to  keep  our  friend  Bar- 
naby  in  order.  What  does  his  poor  little 
American  wife  say  to  his  goings-on?" 

There  was  an  awful  pause  in  'the  room 
above. 

"Susan,"  said  Barnaby,  "he's  as  deaf  as  a 
post.  Put  your  head  out  and  tell  him  as  loud 
as  you  can  what  you  think  of  me. ' ' 

Somebody  began  to  laugh;  the  rest  fol- 
lowed; and  there  was  no  more  awkwardness; 
his  presence  of  mind  had  saved  the  situation. 
As  he  leaned  out  of  the  window  with  his  hand 
on  Susan's  shoulder  the  Major's  face  was  a 
study.  Incontinently  he  fled. 

"There!"  said  Barnaby,  "we  have  routed 
the  enemy.  Let's  get  on  our  horses  and  pur- 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          187 

sue  him.  Hullo,  who  are  these1?  A  whole 
tribe  without  one  sound  horse  among 
them." 

The  Duchess  started  back. 

"Don't  tell  me  it  is  my  friend  Wickes,"  she 
said.  "I  promised  him  weeks  ago  I'd  beat  up 
a  little  talent  for  his  concert  to-night,  and  I 
have  never  done  it.  For  heaven's  sake,  some- 
body, volunteer!  Is  there  a  woman  here  who 
can  sing  in  tune?" 

"Do  you  sing,  Susan?"  said  Barnaby. 

"Oh,  the  man's  affectation!  Does  she  or 
does  she  not?" 

She  did  not  know  what  impelled  her.  Per- 
haps his  carelessness;  his  unshaken  attitude 
of  amusement  at  a  position  that  was — to  him 
• — so  absurd. 

"I  could  act  something,  perhaps,"  she  said. 
The  Duchess  jumped  at  her  offer. 

"Booked!"  she  declared.  "Stop  that  man 
clattering  past,  and  tell  him  I  want  him  to 
sing  John  Peel.  And,  Cherry,  you'll  do  for 
a  comic  song.  You're  men,  and  it  doesn't 
matter  about  your  voices,  so  long  as  you  wear 
red  coats." 

The  young  man  she  was  ordering  pushed 
away  his  cup  with  an  injured  air.  A  murmur 
of  —  "  Delighted,  I  'm  sure.  Delighted ! '  * 
floated  up  from  the  street. 


188          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

"You  know  I  have  only  one  song,"  he  said, 
"and  that  is — The  Broken  Heart." 

"Well,"  she  said  unfeelingly,  "you  can 
make  it  comic." 

"Are  you  coming?"  said  Barnaby.  He 
was  waiting;  some  of  them  had  already 
started.  The  girl  caught  up  her  gloves  and 
whip. 

"Good-bye,  all  of  you,"  said  the  Duchess. 
"I  beg  you'll  remember  your  obligations. 
Barnaby,  the  thing  is  at  eight.  Call  down  to 
John  Peel  and  tell  him.  .  .  .  Whatever 
you  do,  don't  let  my  performer  come  to  any 
harm. ' ' 

"I  will  not  quit  her  side  for  a  moment," 
he  promised,  and  the  Duchess  shook  her  head 
at  him  as  they  ran  downstairs. 

He  was  laughing  as  he  put  her  up  in  the 
saddle. 

"It  appears  you  don't  know  how  to  manage 
a  husband,"  he  said.  "Don't  look  so  sorrow- 
ful. /  don't  mind  them. — And  the  general 
public  is  anxious  to  lend  a  hand." 

They  rode  soberly  side  by  side,  over  the 
noisy  cobbles,  down  to  the  low  white  bridge 
thronged  with  pedestrians,  threading  their 
way  amidst  the  stream  that  was  turning  in  at 
the  gates  further  on  to  the  right. 

"We'll  keep  on,  shall  we?"  said  Barnaby. 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          189 

" Hounds  will  be  moving  directly,  and  there'll 
be  a  fearful  crowd  getting  out  of  the  Park." 

So  they  held  on  between  the  lines  of  towns- 
folk and,  turning  upward,  fell  in  with  a  clus- 
ter of  horsemen  on  the  watch,  loitering  on  the 
hill. 

"  Awful  bore,  meeting  in  the  town  like 
this,"  said  one  of  these  peevishly.  His  horse 
was  eyeing  a  perambulator  strangely,  and 
there  was  no  space  for  antics.  "Why  do  the 
Quorn  do  it?" 

"Oh,  it  pleases  the  multitude." 

There  was  a  roar  down  below,  and  a  scuf- 
fling noise  as  of  hundreds  running.  Above  the 
bobbing  heads  passed  a  glimpse  of  scarlet, 
as  a  whip  issued  from  the  green  gates,  clear- 
ing a  way  for  hounds  that  were  hidden  from 
view  in  the  middle  of  the  throng.  Barnaby 
turned  his  horse  round. 

"Come  on,"  he  said.  "We'll  wait  for  them 
out  of  the  town.  I  suppose  it's  the  customary 
pilgrimage?  Gartree  Hill." 

Behind  them,  louder  and  louder,  drowning 
the  tumult,  came  the  quickening  tramp  of 
horses.  Their  own  animals  grew  excited. 

"Sit  him  tight!"  said  Barnaby.  Her  horse 
had  nearly  bucked  into  the  last  lamp-post 
at  the  top  of  the  hill.  He  would  not  wait 
peaceably  at  the  corner,  so  she  took  him  a 


190          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

few  yards  further  on,  straight  over  the  brow, 
where  the  way  was  not  street,  but  road,  looking 
down  upon  open  country. 

"Hullo!"  said  Barnaby. 

The  fields  that  spread  underneath  were  bare 
and  wind-swept;  there  was  no  sign  of  life  in 
them.  But  what  was  that  brownish  dab  on 
the  right?  Incredulously  he  watched  it  trav- 
elling up  the  furrow; — and,  convinced,  let  out 
a  wild  yell  that  made  their  own  horses  jump. 

"It's  a  fox!"  he  said.  "It's  a  fox.  Keep 
your  eye  on  him,'  Susan,  while  I  fetch  them  up. ' ' 

He  galloped  back,  waving  his  hat  to  hurry 
the  startled  host.  The  huntsman  came 
swiftly  over  the  hill,  and  a  glance  assured  him ; 
he  touched  his  horn.  In  half  a  minute  he  and 
his  hounds  were  scouring  over  the  fields,  and 
the  riders  who  had  been  at  the  front  were 
jumping  out  of  the  road. 

"They've  found.     They  are  running!" 

The  cry  was  flung  from  lip  to  lip  along  the 
bewildered  ranks  that  had  closed  up  in  ex- 
pectation of  the  long  jog  to  cover.  A  minute 
more  and  the  crowd  had  burst  like  a  scattered 
wave,  far  and  wide. 

Down  the  slope;  up  a  rise;  in  and  out  of 
a  lane  defended  by  straggling  blackthorn; 
dipping  over  the  skyline;  the  pack  was  gone. 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          191 

Only  the  quickest  could  live  with  them,  only 
the  first  away  had  a  chance  of  keeping  up  in 
the  run.  They  were  just  a  handful  as  they 
landed  over  a  stake-and-bound  into  a  rolling 
pasture,  a  great  rough  waste  where  the  ridges 
rose  up  like  billows,  crosswise,  submerging  the 
horses  that  were  shortening  in  their  stride. 

"Good  for  the  liver!"  groaned  Kilgour, 
as  he  rocked  up  and  down.  "But  what  a  sell 
for  the  crafty  ones  waiting  on  Gartree  Hill!" 

"They'll  cut  in  with  us  at  Great  Dalby," 
said  Barnaby,  flinging  a  glance  that  side. 
The  pack  hung  to  the  left,  still  flying. 

"Not  much!"  said  Kilgour.  "D'you  sup- 
pose the  fox  is  stopping  with  Lydia  Measures 
for  a  bottle  of  ginger  beer? — What  did  I  tell 
you?  There  they  go,  wide  of  the  village,  over 
the  Kirby  lane — " 

He  broke  off  his  ejaculations,  pointing 
triumphantly  with  his  whip,  pushing  on.  A 
man  of  his  build  could  not  afford  to  lag  be- 
hind, unlike  those  light-weights  who  could  lie 
by  and  then  come  like  a  whirlwind  and  make 
it  up.  He  must  keep  plodding  on.  But  he 
took  no  shame  to  diverge  suddenly  to  a  gate. 
Let  the  young  'uns  surmount  that  rasper. 

On  the  high  ground  above  a  breathless  horde 
struck  in.  Eumour,  or  the  wind,  or  some  sav- 


192          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

ing  instinct  had  warned  them;  they  had  come 
at  a  breakneck  pace  from  their  shivering 
watch  elsewhere. 

Susan,  riding  her  hardest,  with  her  chin  up 
and  rapture  on  her  face,  laughed  as  she  heard 
the  frantic  thudding  of  that  pursuit. 

' 'They've  missed  a  bit,'*  cried  Barnaby  at 
her  shoulder.  Her  horse  was  faster  than  his, 
but  was  tiring.  She  was  glad  to  steady  him 
as  the  pack  ran  into  a  strip  of  trees. 

"What  a  scent!"  said  Barnaby.  "Hark 
at  them!  They're  sticking  to  him; — they're 
driving  him  up  the  Pastures  I" 

He  swung  round  in  his  saddle,  still  keeping 
on.  The  rearguard,  no  longer  in  desperation, 
were  trooping  contentedly  down  the  road. 

"They'll  get  left,"  he  said.  "They  reckon 
on  losing  him.  Silly  asses,  they're  lighting 
their  cigarettes ! ' ' 

Slower,  but  steadily,  hounds  were  running 
up  the  wood.  Their  cry  increased  in  volume, 
vociferous,  echoing  in  the  trees.  It  sounded 
a  hundred  times  louder  than  in  the  open. 
And  this  time  there  was  no  changing  foxes; 
they  drove  him  too  hard.  Out  he  went  at  the 
top,  and  had  no  time  to  twist  and  turn  in 
again;  they  were  on  his  heels.  Beyond  was  a 
steep  drop  into  a  village,  and  then  a  long 
struggle,  and  another  drop  to  a  ford.  As  the 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          193 

last  of  them  were  splashing  through  the  water, 
the  first  of  them  were  swinging  out  of  their 
saddles  and  turning  their  horses'  heads  to  the 
wind.  They  had  run  to  Baggrave,  and  killed 
their  fox  in  the  Park. 

* '  Three  cheers  for  Barnaby  and  his  outlier, ' ' 
said  Kilgour.  "That  was  no  poultry- 
snatcher,  but  a  real  beetle-fed  warrior.  What 
the  dickens  shall  we  do  next?" 

"Oh,  get  up  in  a  tree,  somebody,  like  Sister 
Anne;  and  rake  the  horizon  for  second 
horses!" 

Susan  knew  that  voice.    It  was  Eackham. 

"Get  up  yourself,"  said  Kilgour.  "Your 
history  isn't  sound.  /  don't  trust  my  weight 
on  anything  but  a  watch-tower." 

Susan  had  turned  away  her  face;  she  did 
not  want  to  have  to  acknowledge  Eackham,  al- 
though he  had  no  shame  in  approaching  her. 
Nervously  she  plunged  into  a  rapid  argument 
with  Kilgour,  whose  broad  and  comfortable 
presence  was  a  kind  of  buckler.  But  through 
it  all  she  was  conscious  of  him,  she  heard  his 
voice.  He  and  Barnaby  were  arranging  some- 
thing about  a  horse.  She  did  not  catch  the 
drift  of  it,  but  Eackham  turned  to  her  point- 
edly and  asked  her  opinion. 

"I  wasn't  listening,"  she  said.  His  glance 
penetrating;  she  could  not  escape  it,  and 


194         THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

recollection  burnt  in  her  cheek.  She  heard 
Barnaby  whistle  suddenly  to  himself. 

Hounds  were  moving  at  last,  not  hurrying, 
but  drifting  across  the  park,  searching  as  they 
went;  and  second  horsemen  were  springing 
up  out  of  nowhere.  Those  who  were  lucky 
were  changing  horses.  Already  it  was  far  on 
in  the  afternoon. 

"That's  the  worst  of  beginning  so  late," 
said  Kilgour.  "The  day's  gone  before  you 
know  it.  And  here  we've,  been  dawdling 
munching.  .  .  .  Now  we'll  just  get  away 
with  the  twilight  after  dodging  backwards  and 
forwards  for  an  hour  or  two  between  the 
Prince  of  Wales 's  and  Barkby  Holt. ' ' 

"Shut  up,  ill  prophet!"  said  Barnaby,  as 
they  gathered  close  in  to  the  cover-side. 
Already  there  was  a  whimper. 

But  it  was  late  before  the  prophesied  shilly- 
shallying came  to  its  appointed  end,  and  those 
who  had  resisted  the  false  alarms,  sticking 
patiently  on  guard  at  a  windy  corner,  saw 
a  fox  break  at  last.  A  misleading  holloa  had 
drawn  off  the  field;  they  were  massing  on  the 
other  side,  out  of  sight,  out  of  hearing  in  the 
rising  wind  that  carried  away  with  it  the  warn- 
ing note  of  the  horn.  And  hounds  were  slip- 
ping out  like  lightning. 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          195 

"Come  on!"  said  Barnaby.  This  time 
there  was  no  mistake. 

It  didn't  matter  that  there  was  a  rival  shout 
behind  the  dense  thicket.  Let  those  who  liked 
it  exclaim  that  the  pack  was  divided,  and  miss 
a  run  to  hang  skirmishing  for  ever  and  ever 
about  the  Holt.  .  .  .  They  had  a  fox  away, 
and  at  least  half  the  hounds  were  on  him  as 
he  dipped  the  rise  and  went  spinning  into  the 
infinite.  Just  a  handful  of  riders  they  were, 
but  high-hearted,  as  they  turned  their  faces 
towards  the  dim  red  line  of  the  sinking  sun. 

Miles  and  miles  they  seemed  to  go  swinging 
on.  Behind  a  grey  church,  round  a  silent 
village,  and  under  a  rustling  wood.  The  wind 
was  fresh  with  the  breath  of  twilight;  its 
withering  blast  died  down  with  that  last 
stinging  gust  of  rain.  And  hounds  were  still 
running  as  swift  as  shadows,  flickering  far  and 
fast. 

One  by  one  the  rest  of  them  had  fallen  back ; 
had  steadied  their  faltering  horses  and  lis- 
tened, beaten.  Susan  could  hardly  see  the 
fences  as  they  came  up,  darker  and  darker 
against  the  sky.  But  her  horse  rushed  at 
them  gallantly,  and  she  had  Barnaby  to  follow. 
Hounds  were  invisible  now,  but  near;  their 
cry  was  fierce  behind  that  clump  of  trees,  im- 


196          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

penetrable  but  for  one  glimmering  gap  of 
light. 

"They're  running  him  still!"  called  Bar- 
naby,  plunging  in. 

His  voice  was  all  she  wanted.  She  could  not 
ask  more  of  Heaven  than  this  one  gallop ;  and 
all  her  life  she  would  remember  that  she  had 
ridden  it  out  with  him.  .  .  . 

They  had  to  ride  warily  through  the  trees, 
feeling  their  way,  trusting  in  their  horses. 
Here  the  path  was  deep  and  boggy,  there  water 
trickled,  and  the  boughs  hung  low,  swishing 
against  them  as  they  went  by.  Birds  whirred 
restlessly  in  the  creaking  branches,  and  an  owl 
flew  shrieking  in  front  of  them.  When  they 
emerged  from  that  eerie  passage  everything 
had  grown  weird  and  strange  in  the  cheating 
dusk. 

"That's  the  horn,"  said  Barnaby.  "He's 
calling  them  ofT.  Doesn't  it  sound  unearthly? 
— There  they  are.  Listen.  .  .  .  Listen. 
.  .  .  They're  running  him  in  the  dark!" 

Far  away  on  the  hillside  a  light  twinkled 
suddenly,  turning  the  twilight  land  into  dark- 
ness as  the  first  star  makes  it  night  in  the  sky. 

Barnaby  laughed.  "That  was  a  hunt!"  he 
said.  "Hark!  he's  stopped  them.  We'll  have 
to  find  our  way  out  of  this.  Why,  we  can't 
see  each  other's  faces.  .  .  .  Let's  keep  on 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          197 

a  bit  up  this  hedge-side,  and  perhaps  we'll  get 
into  a  bridle-road." 

He  went  first,  striking  into  a  kind  of  track. 

" There  should  be  a  gate  in  the  corner,"  he 
said.  "  Better  let  your  horse  get  his  head 
down  and  smell  out  the  rabbit-holes.  We're 
like  the  babes  in  the  wood,  aren't  we?  Mind 
that  grip! — Where  are  you?" 

The  gate  was  there.  They  passed  through 
it,  and  on  the  other  side  was  a  sign-post. 
Barnaby  struck  a  match,  standing  up  in  his 
stirrups  to  peer  at  the  moss-stained  board. 

"I'm  afraid,"  he  said,  "we'll  be  late  for 
that  concert.  Unless  we  can  strike  Kilgour's 
habitation  and  get  him  to  send  us  on.  Shall 
we  try  for  it?  We're — oh,  never  mind  where 
we  are;  it's  the  end  of  the  world,  anyhow. 
Are  you  tired  to  death?" 

He  turned  round  with  the  match  in  his  fin- 
gers, and  looked  at  her,  but  it  had  burnt  down ; 
he  dropped  it,  and  reaching  out,  caught  her 
hand,  swinging  it  in  his  as  their  horses  stum- 
bled on  side  by  side. 

"What  a  cold  little  hand!"  he  said,  but  his 
grip  was  warming  it  through  the  leather.  .  .  . 

The  end  of  the  world.  .  .  .  He  had  used 
the  word  so  lightly,  but  it  called  her  back  to 
reason.  Another  day  was  over.  And  per- 
haps to-morrow  the  world  might  end. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  Duchess  and  her  friend  Wickes  were  a 
trifle  anxious,  but  their  faces  cleared  as  the 
late  ones  arrived.  Two  or  three  rows  behind 
them  the  village  schoolmaster  dropped  like  a 
shot  rabbit  into  his  seat. 

"A  minute  later  and  we'd  have  been  lost," 
whispered  the  Duchess.  "It's  always  a  battle 
to  keep  him  off  the  platform.  Once  he  is 
wound  up  no  power  on  earth  can  stop  him. 
Twice  already  he  has  offered  his  recitation, 
proposing  to  fill  the  breach." 

"Poor  devil,  what  a  shame!"  said  Barnaby. 
" Why  not  let  him?" 

"We  did  let  him — once,"  said  Wickes,  and 
a  reminiscent  shudder  passed  down  the  row. 
He  addressed  himself  eagerly  to  Susan. 

"It's  awfully  good  of  you,  Mrs.  Hill,"  he 
said,  the  worried  creases  in  his  long  face  relax- 
ing. "Every  time  I  get  up  a  village  concert  I 
swear  it  will  be  the  last,  but  I  go  on  doing 
it  year  by  year.  You  have  no  idea  what  the 
tribulations  are — " 

"That  is  meant  for  me,"  said  the  Duchess, 
lowering  her  voice  to  a  guilty  whisper.  " — I 
ask  you,  how  could  I  help  it?  You  know  what 

198 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          199 

a  commotion  there  was  this  morning,  getting 
off  to  the  meet. — I  told  somebody  to  call  down 
from  my  window  to  Eufus  Brown  that  he  was 
to  attend  this  concert  and  sing  John  Peel. — I 
could  tell  him  a  mile  off  by  his  old  grey  horse ; 
you  know:  how  the  creature  bobs  his  head  up 
and  down: — " 

"1  did  your  bidding,"  said  Barnaby.  "You 
only  said  'Stop  him!'  and  I  don't  know  who 
on  earth  it  was,  but  it  certainly  wasn't  Eufus." 

"How  was  I  to  know,"  groaned  the  Duchess, 
"that  he  had  sold  the  grey?" 

"But  the  beggar  was  quite  delighted,"  pro- 
tested Barnaby,  who  saw  nothing  worse  than 
a  joke  in  this  substitution  of  a  probably  voice- 
less stranger.  "He  undertook  to  do  it." 

The  Duchess  pointed  a  solemn  finger. 

"Barnaby,"  she  said,  "you  have  been  out 
of  the  world  too  long.  You  don't  know  the 
whole  horror  of  the  position.  There  he  sits ! ' ' 

"Flushed  with  victory,"  murmured  someone 
else,  "hoarse  with  bawling: — " 

"It  was  an  awful  moment,"  said  the  Duch- 
ess, "when  he  came  and  thanked  me  for  the 
compliment  I  had  paid  him.  I've  never 
spoken  to  the  wretch  in  my  life." 

"He  feels  you  have  adopted  him  now,"  said 
the  Job's  comforter  at  her  elbow.  "Barnaby, 
you  don't  know  him.  He's  the  most  impossi- 


200          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

ble  bounder  who  was  ever  kicked  out  of  society, 
and  we  have  all  been  turning  him  the  cold 
shoulder  for  the  last  two  seasons.  We  were 
beginning  to  hope  we  had  finally  choked  him 
off." 

"Poor  Wickes  is  nearly  beside  himself," 
said  the  Duchess.  ''He  will  never  get  over  it. 
But  imagine  my  feelings  when  I  discovered 
what  I  had  done — " 

"The  populace  at  the  back  didn't  know  what 
to  make  of  it;  they  are  used  to  us  rollicking 
in  John  Peel, — shouting  out  the  chorus.  But 
we  were  all  too  utterly  petrified  to  emit  a 
whoop — " 

"Is  there  anything  you  would  like  in  the 
way  of  properties,  Mrs.  Hill?"  said  Wickes,  in 
a  severe,  sad  voice.  Susan  looked  down,  sud- 
denly nervous,  her  hands  clenched,  her  face  a 
little  pale. 

"What  is  your  wife  going  to  do?"  Kilgour 
was  asking,  and  Barnaby  was  answering  care- 
lessly that  he  didn't  know. 

"She  is  rather  a  dab  at  acting,"  he  said,  and 
now  he  was  looking  humorously  at  her.  But 
for  once  she  failed  to  smile  back  her  recog- 
nition of  the  eternal  joke  between  them.  .  .  . 
Yes,  she  was  good  at  acting.  .  .  . 

"Turn  the  lights  down,"  she  said,  and  Mr. 
Wickes  flew  obediently  to  the  nearest  lamp. 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          201 

Anything  to  obliterate  past  misfortunes! — 
"And  there  is  a  woman  at  the  back  with  a 
baby.  Ask  her  to  lend  it  to  me. ' ' 

She  had  meant  to  amuse  them  differently, 
but  some  impulse  had  made  her  change  her 
mind.  She  flung  a  dark  shawl,  borrowed,  over 
her  satin  frock.  Mr.  Wickes  came  back  to  her, 
carrying  the  child  gingerly;  its  mother  had 
relinquished  it  with  pride,  only  protesting 
against  his  taking  it  up  by  the  back  of  its 
neck  like  a  puppy,  which  Wickes,  distracted 
by  his  responsibilities,  had  seemed  inclined 
to  do. 

They  were  all  looking  at  her  with  interest, 
mildly  stirred  to  expect  something  unusual, 
as  the  anxious  Wickes  helped  her  on  to  the 
platform  and  lowered  another  lamp.  But  as 
she  stood  above  them  their  curious  faces  faded, 
and  the  touch  of  the  little  body,  so  light  in  her 
arm,  took  her  out  of  herself.  She  was  once 
more  playing,  playing  for  life,  in  the  Tragedy 
Company;  making  the  people  sob  at  the  tragic 
end  of  the  drama. 

11 — Don't  waken  the  child.    .    .     ." 

The  first  note  of  her  voice  vibrated  like  the 
plaintive  string  of  a  harp.  The  listeners  were 
startled. 

She  was  the  woman  whose  husband  was 
faithless  and,  in  the  horrible  madness  that 


202          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

gripped  him,  was  coming  to  take  her  life.  She 
was  shut  in,  hidden  in  a  poor  shelter,  miles 
away  from  human  help;  and  she  was  listening 
for  his  step  in  terror,  loving  him  so  bitterly 
still  that  she  would  have  been  glad  to  die,  but 
clinging  desperately  to  life  for  the  sake  of  his 
child.  And  she  rocked  the  baby  on  her  arm, 
half  distracted;  singing  to  it,  ceasing  her 
chant  to  listen  .  .  .  and  imagining  his  ap- 
proach. But  all  the  while,  in  her  despair,  she 
stifled  the  scream  that  was  on  her  lips; — she 
must  not  waken  the  child. 

Further  and  further  she  retreated,  staring 
with  frightened  eyes  at  the  door,  but  still 
Pushing  the  baby  at  her  breast;  and  then,  all 
at  once,  she  stopped,  and  bent  her  face  to  its 
cheek.  A  pause  hung,  significant;  and  then 
came  her  cry,  dreadful,  heart-breaking.  The 
baby  was  still.  He  might  come;  he  might 
kill  her  ...  he  could  not  waken  the  child. 

"Good  heavens,  how  real!"  said  Mr. 
Wickes. 

Susan,  breathing  a  little  quicker,  looked 
down  on  the  dim-lit  audience.  All  these 
women  could  ride,  all  these  women  could  dance. 
.  .  .  She  wanted  Barnaby  to  think  of  her 
sometimes,  later.  Would  he  remember  her  by 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          203 

the  one  thing  they  could  not  do?  by  that  wild 
scrap  of  melodrama? 

The  room  was"  shaking  with  an  almost 
hysterical  applause.  Behind  there  was  an 
enthusiastic  stamping.  And  the  only  woman 
who  was  not  crying  was  the  baby's  mother, 
who  was  too  flattered,  and  one  other  who 
looked  on  with  disdainful  eyes. 

"Did  you  like  it?"  asked  the  actress  wist- 
fully. It  was  Barnaby  himself  who  had  come 
forward  to  help  her  down.  She  could  not 
hear  what  he  said;  it  was  under  his  breath, 
and  it  was  drowned  in  the  clapping. 

The  lights  had  gone  up  again;  she  could 
recognise  the  people  who  were  surrounding 
her,  as  she  stepped  down  amongst  them.  Near 
the  wall,  not  very  far  from  the  Duchess,  who 
was  frankly  borrowing  a  large,  masculine 
handkerchief,  were  sitting  a  thin,  fair  woman, 
and  a  big,  stupid,  slow-witted  man.  They 
both  had  an  odd  look  of  having  just  found 
each  other.  The  Duchess  wagged  her  head  at 
them. 

"Yes,"  she  whispered,  "there  they  are. 
They  have  made  it  up.  .  .  .  Wickes,  don't 
you  think  it  would  be  a  noble  deed  to  invite 
the  schoolmaster  to  play  God  Save  the  King? 
It  will  get  his  name  into  the  local  paper." 


204         THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

"Certainly,"  said  Wickes.  He  took  a  long 
breath,  conceived  his  troubles  over,  remain- 
ing, however,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  Susan  in  a 
kind  of  awed  curiosity.  Finally  he  spoke  out 
the  problem  in  his  mind. 

"Do  you  mind  telling  me,"  he  said,  apolo- 
getically, "what  spell  you  used — how  you 
contrived  to  keep  the  inf ant § quiet?" 

"Oh,  she's  a  witch!"  said  Barnaby. 

"Yes,  she's  a  witch,"  said  the  Duchess 
kindly,  "but  I  know  the  secret.  It  had  a 
comforter  in  its  mouth." 

They  were  all  moving  now,  bustling  out  of 
their  chairs,  and  blocking  up  the  gangway  with 
their  "good  nights."  The  proletariat  was 
waiting  for  them  to  depart  before  shuffling  out 
of  the  shilling  benches.  And  there  was  Julia, 
paler  than  usual,  but  as  lovely,  smiling  at  Bar- 
naby, giving  him  a  long,  strange  look  that  was 
full  of  pity  and  understanding.  .  .  . 

"You're  done  up,"  said  Barnaby.  "Come 
along.  I  shouldn't  have  let  you  be  dragged 
into  this  performance  on  the  top  of  a  hard 
day's  hunting." 

She  kept  her  lip  steady,  wishing  she  had  not 
seen  that  interchange  of  glances;  shrinking 
absurdly  from  the  implication  that  was  con- 
veyed by  Kilgour's  officious  interposition  of 
Ms  broad  person.  Did  he  think  he  could  arrest 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          205 

the  march  of  events  by  planting  himself  like 
a  kind  ox  between  Barnaby  and  Julia?  Did 
he  think  they  would  not  find  means — ?  Still 
she  kept  her  lip  steady,  letting  Barnaby  hurry 
her  down  the  room;  reminding  herself  that 
she  had  no  right  to  feel  insulted,  or  even  a 
little  sad. 

When  they  reached  home  she  was  going 
straight  upstairs,  as  was  her  custom,  but  Bar- 
naby stopped  her. 

"Don't  go  up  yet,"  he  said.  "You  ate  no 
dinner.  I  told  them  we'd  have  something 
when  we  came  in." 

She  let  him  draw  a  chair  for  her  beside 
that  red  fire  in  the  hall  that  always  tempted 
the  weary  to  go  no  further;  and  bring  things 
that  she  did  not  want  out  of  the  dining-room. 

"I've  sent  away  the  servants,"  he  said. 
"I've  got  out  of  the  way  of  them  flitting 
round  me.  You'd  rather  sit  here,  wouldn't 
you,  and  get  warm  and  let  me  forage  ? ' ' 

For  a  little  while  they  were  gay,  and  then 
he  cleared  away  plates  and  glasses,  and  a 
silence  fell  between  them.  He  settled  down  in 
another  of  the  great  chairs  and  lit  a  cigarette. 
A  smiled  curved  in  the  corners  of  his  mouth 
and  vanished;  he  was  thinking  hard.  Susan 
watched  him,  shading  her  eyes  with  her  hand 


206         ,THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

that  lie  might  not  raise  his  head  suddenly  and 
read  their  wistfulness.  She  was  not  often 
alone  with  him  in  the  house. 

What  was  he  thinking?  His  face  was  no 
longer  careless;  the  kind  blue  eyes  were  fixed 
earnestly  on  the  fire.  She  remembered  the 
strangeness  of  Julia's  look  and  her  heart  ached, 
guessing.  Something  must  have  happened 
between  them;  he  must  have  let  her  see  un- 
mistakably that  he  loved  her  still.  For  there 
had  been  no  restlessness  in  Julia's  air,  no 
bravado, — it  had  been  the  smile  of  a  woman 
who  was  sure.  And  he  had  himself  set  a 
barrier  between  them. 

She  felt  a  wild  longing  to  comfort  him,  to 
take  his  head  on  her  arm  and  whisper  that 
nothing  was  too  hard  for  a  man, — nothing 
worth  that  steadfast,  unhappy  gaze. 

He  moved,  and  the  start  it  gave  her  set  her 
pulses  beating  fast.  If  he  had  not  stirred, 
might  not  the  impulse  have  been  too  much  for 
her  ?  might  she  not  have  found  herself  kneeling 
by  him,  comforting  him  in  the  madness  of 
her  heart?  She  heard  her  own  voice,  im- 
ploring, sharp  as  if  in  some  stress  of  mortal 
fright — 

"Oh,  let  me  go!  Oh,  will  you  not  let  me 
go?" 

He   had   looked   up   quickly.    The    sobbing 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          207 

wildness  of  her  cry  broke  in  on  his  absent 
mood. 

"You  are  tired  of  the  farce?"  he  said. 

She  came  back  to  herself.  What  was  the 
matter  with  her?  "I — cannot — bear  it,"  she 
said  slowly. 

And  for  a  minute  there  was  silence  again 
between  them.  She  heard  the  fire  crackling,  a 
far-away  clock  ticking  on  the  stairs;  .  .  . 
she  thought  she  could  hear  the  silence  itself. 

"I  didn't  know  it  was  hurting  you,"  he  said. 

He  was  sorry  for  her ;  he  must  not  be  sorry. 
She  tried  to  laugh. 

"Don't  think  of  me,"  she  said.  "It— it 
didn't  matter.  After  all,  I'm  an  actress.  I 
am  one  of  these  strange  people  that  can  pre- 
tend. Let  me  go  back  to  the  other  kind  of 
acting,  where  nobody  will  think  me  real ;  where 
there  will  be  crowds  applauding,  and  not  just 
one  person  to  be  amused  and  say — *  She  carries 
it  off  well,  but  she'll  make  a  slip, — she  will 
stumble!'  .  .  .  Oh,  it  couldn't  hurt  me. 
Don't  you  know  we  can  only  hurt  our- 
selves?" 

"Do  you  think  I'll  let  you  go  back  to  that 
life?"  he  said. 

His  voice  recalled  the  raging  warmth  of  pity 
with  which  he  had  once  referred  to  his  law- 
yer's tale  of  her  plight.  Apparently  the  situa- 


208          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

tion  still  roused  in  him  a  mistaken  feeling  that 
she  was  in  his  charge.  She  flushed,  struggling 
with  a  betraying  weakness. 

"A  hard  life,"  she  said,  "but  not  unbear- 
able. .  .  .  My  public  will  not  be  cheated. 
They  will  not  shame  me  with  too  much  kind- 
ness— " 

Barnaby  was  not  listening. 

"Who  was  the  man, — that  fellow  last 
night?"  he  said. 

Why  did  he  speak  of  that?  Did  he  dare  to 
imagine  that  she  was  building  on  another 
man's  promises?  that  she  was  scheming,  cal- 
culating— 7 

"No, — "  she  cried  bitterly.  "No, — not 
that!" 

A  great  while  after,  it  seemed  to  her,  he 
spoke  again.  His  voice  was  quiet. 

"I  think  you  are  right,"  he  said.  "It's 
time  to  make  an  end  of  this.  It's  too  danger- 
ous." 

"Yes,"  she  said  faintly.  That  at  least  was 
true.  .  .  . 

He  went  on,  rather  quickly.  She  was  not 
looking  at  him.  She  could  not. 

"Listen.  To-morrow  you'll  have  a  wire 
from  London.  I'll  see  to  it.  I'm  afraid  we 
can't  make  it  a  cable;  there  isn't  time.  It  will 
have  to  be  from  my.  lawyers,  saying  you  are 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          209 

wanted  in  America  on  important  business. 
My  mother  doesn't  understand  business.  Any- 
how, you'll  be  excited,  and  you  needn't  know 
what  it  means;  so  you  can't  explain." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  in  the  same  low  voice. 
"To-morrow." 

"We'll  have  to  see  about  boats  and  things 
when  we  get  up  to  town.  And,  of  course,  we'll 
have  to  make  up  a  story.  But  once  you're  out 
of  this  country — " 

Yes,  once  she  was  out  of  this  country  it 
would  all  be  simple.  She  had  only  to  disap- 
pear. 

"What  will  you  say  of  me?"  she  asked,  with 
a  sad  quaintness.  "Will  you  tell  them  that  I 
am  dead!" 

He  moved  suddenly,  checking  himself. 

"Oh,  God  knows!"  he  said.  "It  will  take  a 
lot  of  planning.  You've  forgotten  the — other 
lady." 

Yes,  that  was  his  difficulty.  Although  she 
would  be  gone  there  would  still  be  a  bar 
between  him  and  Julia.  That  was  the 
tragedy. 

"I'll  be  out  when  the  wire  comes,  probably," 
he  said.  It  seemed  to  amuse  him  to  settle  the 
details;  he  seemed  to  be  flinging  his  serious- 
ness aside.  "Eackham  is  coming  over  to  try 
a  horse.  For  form's  sake  you'll  have  to  send 


210         THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

for  me  immediately.  I'll  be  somewhere  down 
in  the  schooling  pastures." 

The  nearness  of  exile  took  away  her  breath. 
But  the  impossible  situation  could  only  have 
ended  so.  That  had  been  their  bargain.  At 
least  she  had  not  failed  him,  she  had  done  all 
that  he  asked  of  her,  drinking  the  bitter  cup 
of  her  own  dishonesty  to  the  dregs.  A  rush  of 
memory  carried  her  back  to  that  first  night  of 
his  return,  so  distant,  and  yet  such  a  little 
while  ago.  She  held  out  her  hand  to  him, 
humbly,  uncertainly — 

"Good  night,"  she  said.  "You — you  have 
been  good  to  me." 

Barnaby  took  her  hands  in  his ;  clasped  them 
hard.  It  was  surely  not  his  voice  that  was  so 
unsteady. 

"It's  the  last  time,  is  it?"  he  said.  "Let's 
play  it  out  gallantly.  Let's  pretend.  Susan, 
— Susan — is  that  how  you  say  good  night  to 
your  husband?" 

Her  heart  beat  fast;  her  head  was  dizzy. 
He  was  looking  down  in  her  eyes,  drawing  her 
hands  to  his  breast. 

No,  not  Barnaby:— not  the  one  man  she 
trusted!  .  .  . 

"Good  night, — Sir,"  she  whispered. 

And  he  remembered ;  he  let  her  go  and  stood 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          211 

back  as  she  passed  him  on  her  way  to  the 
stairs. 

"Good  night,"  he  repeated,  in  that  queer, 
unsteady  voice.  "I  beg  your  pardon, — 
Madam." 


CHAPTER  XI 

TO-MORRROW  had  come. 

It  was  the  same  kind  of  morning  as  other 
mornings;  there  was  no  lurid  conflagration 
lighting  up  the  sky.  Outside  it  was  dull  and 
quiet,  and  even  the  wind  was  still.  Susan 
paused  at  the  staircase  window,  gazing  a  little 
while. 

In  the  hall  beneath  she  heard  Barnaby  talk- 
ing to  the  dogs.  And  his  voice  shook  her. 
The  stunned  sense  of  finality  that  was  with 
her  gave  way  to  a  sharp  and  sudden  pain. 

She  could  not  bear  to  go  down  to  him. 
Turning,  she  fled  back. 

''Is  that  you,  Susan?"  called  Lady  Hen- 
rietta. She  was  sitting  up  at  her  breakfast, 
and  the  door  of  her  room  was  ajar.  "Where 
is  Barnaby  riding  out  so  early?  I  heard  his 
boots  creaking  as  he  went  by." 

"I  don't  know,"  the  girl  said,  truly.  "I 
haven't  seen  him." 

"Then  don't  loiter  like  a  draught  in  the 
door,"  said  Lady  Henrietta  impatiently. 
"Come  in  and  have  your  tea  up  here  and  help 
me  to  read  my  letters." 

She  did  as  she  was  bidden.  The  sharp  kind- 
212 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          213 

liness  of  Barnaby's  mother  was  sweet  to  her; 
and  it  was  the  last  time  she  would  sit  with  her, 
the  last  time  she  would  listen  with  a  smile  that 
was  not  far  from  tears  to  her  caustic  prattle. 
Whatever  happened  to  her,  however  they  man- 
aged her  disappearance,  she  and  Lady  Hen- 
rietta would  never  meet  again.  Would  she 
think  of  her  sometimes, — kindly? — she  was 
not  to  know.  .  .  . 

''What's  the  matter  now?"  said  Lady  Hen- 
rietta suddenly.  "You  look  pale." 

Hurriedly  the  girl  defended  herself  from 
the  imputation. 

"Of  course,  it's  Barnaby,"  said  Lady  Hen- 
rietta, undismayed.  "I  suppose  he  has  been 
behaving  badly." 

"  Oh  no !     Oh  no ! "  cried  Susan. 

Lady  Henrietta  waved  her  hands  im- 
patiently. How  fragile  she  looked,  how; 
pretty; — the  pink  in  her  cheekbones  matching 
her  painted  silk  peignoir.  The  hardness  that 
sometimes  marred  her  expression  had  softened 
to  a  pitying  amusement,  and  she  had  a  look 
of  Barnaby  when  she  smiled  like  that. 

"You'd  deny  it  with  your  last  gasp," 
she  said. 

Susan  was  picking  up  and  arranging  the  let- 
ters that  were  lying  in  disorder.  It  was  dif- 
ficult to  sustain  that  quizzical  regard.  But 


214         THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

Barnaby's  mother  had  not  finished  with  her. 
She  was  not  to  be  distracted. 

1  'You  never  tell  me  anything,  either  of 
you,"  she  said.  "What  is  a  mother-in-law  for 
but  to  rule  the  tempest  and  shoot  about  in  the 
battle?  It's  too  firmly  fixed  in  your  heads  that 
I  am  a  brittle  thing,  and  whatever  is  raging 
round  me  I  am  not  to  be  excited.  And  it's 
absurd.  I  don't  mind  having  a  heart, — in 
reason.  It's  amusing;  a  kind  of  trick  up  my 
sleeve.  But  I  won't  have  it  robbing  me  of  my 
rightful  flustrations. — I  am  as  strong  as  a 
horse,  if  you  two  would  realise  it.  And  you 
and  Barnaby  are  such  a  funny  couple." 

She  scanned  the  girl's  face  a  minute. 

"I'm  attached  to  you,  you  little  wretch,"  she 
said.  "But  I  don't  believe  you  care  a  straw 
for  him." 

But  as  she  spoke  her  merciless  eyes  had 
pierced  the  girl's  mask  of  light-heartedness. 
On  this  last  morning  Susan  was  not  mistress 
of  herself. 

"You  are  fond  of  him!"  she  said.  "Dread- 
fully, ridiculously  fond  of  him  like  any  old- 
fashioned  girl.  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  hush!"  cried  Susan.  Anything  to  stop 
that  unmerciful  proclamation.  She  flung  her- 
self on  her  knees,  and  her  terrified  protest  was 
stifled  in  Lady  Henrietta's  arms. 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN         215 

"How  silly  we  are!"  said  she,  but  she  held 
the  girl  tightly.  "I'm  to  bridle  my  tongue, 
am  I?  You  are  afraid  I  shall  tell  him?  Oh, 
you  poor  little  girl,  you  baby,  is  it  as  bad  as 
that?" 

She  pushed  her  away,  as  if  ashamed  of  her 
own  emotion,  and  a  fierceness  came  into  her 
voice,  that  had  been  entirely  kind. 

"If  you  allow  that  woman  to  ruin  your 
lives — !"  she  said.  "Oh,  I'm  not  blind,  I'm 
not  altogether  stupid — !  If  you  let  her 
take  him  from  us — I'll  never  forgive  you, 
Susan." 

Having  launched  her  bolt,  all  unconscious 
of  its  stabbing  irony,  she  recovered  her  ban- 
tering equanimity,  and  looked  whimsically  at 
her  listener. 

"Why  are  you  gazing  at  me,"  she  said,  "as 
if  I  were  about  to  vanish?  I'm  not  going  to 
die  of  it.  I  am  going  to  take  the  field. ' ' 

Barnaby  was  not  in  the  house  when  the  girl 
went  at  last  downstairs.  She  wandered  in  and 
out  of  the  library,  trying  to  smother  her  ex- 
pectation, listening  without  ceasing  for  the 
telegram  that  was  to  come  and  make  an  end. 
He  did  not  appear  at  luncheon,  and  she  sat 
alone,  pretending  to  eat,  but  starting  at  every 
sound.  Afterwards,  to  quiet  her  restlessness, 


216         THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

she  went  round  to  the  stables  to  say  good-bye 
to  the  horses. 

The  pigeons  flew  down  to  her  as  she  walked 
into  the  wide  flagged  yard.  She  went  to  the 
corn  bin  and  scattered  a  handful  as  they  cir- 
cled round  her  and  settled  at  her  feet.  The 
men  must  be  still  at  dinner.  There  was  no 
stud  groom  to  look  reproachful  as  she  tipped  a 
little  oats  in  a  sieve  to  give  secretly  to  the 
horse  that  had  been  her  own  in  this  country  of 
make-believe.  She  felt  like  a  thief  as  she  lifted 
the  latch.  It  seemed  wrong  to  be  there  by  her- 
self, without  Barnaby.  She  had  always  gone 
round  with  him. 

The  horse  lifted  his  beautiful  head,  and  they 
stared  at  each  other.  She  patted  his  quarter 
with  her  flat  hand,  and  he  went  over  and  let 
her  empty  her  parting  gift  in  his  manger. 

"Good-bye,"  she  said.  "  Good-bye,  old 
boy!" 

Tears  choked  her.  She  stumbled  out 
through  the  straw  and  shut  the  door  on  him. 

All  down  that  side  of  the  yard  there  was  a 
row  of  boxes.  The  bay  came  first,  and  then 
the  chestnut  that  Barnaby  had  ridden  yester- 
day afternoon.  He  pulled  a  little  with  Bar- 
naby; ...  he  had  never  pulled  with  her. 
And  there  was  the  hotter  chestnut  that  she  had 
called  Mustard,  and  the  brown  horse  that  had 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          217 

been  mishandled  and  had  a  trick  of  striking 
out  when  a  stranger  came  up  to  him  in  the 
stall.  She  had  gone  with  Barnaby  to  look  at 
him  when  he  first  arrived  from  the  dealers', 
— and  Barnaby  had  caught  her  back  just  in 
time.  The  horse  looked  at  her  gravely,  sadly, 
with  no  evil  flicker  in  his  eye.  Life  had  dealt 
hardly  with  him  as  with  her,  and  he  seemed, 
best  of  them  all,  to  understand.  But  Barnaby 
had  forbidden  her  to  go  near  him.  .  .  . 
Mechanically  she  went  on  to  Black  Eose's  box, 
but  her  place  was  empty. 

There  was  a  grey  next  door,  an  old  horse 
that  had  carried  her  many  times.  He  was  to 
be  fired  in  the  spring,  sold  perhaps.  She  leant 
her  head,  shuddering,  against  him;  and  he 
licked  at  her  hand  like  a  dog.  .  .  .  What 
was  the  end  of  them,  all  these  brave,  patient, 
willing  creatures?  A  few  seasons'  eager 
service,  and  then,  step  by  step,  as  the  tired  mus- 
cles failed  the  undying  spirit — knocking  from 
hand  to  hand,  harder  fare,  worse  misusage, — 
the  dreadful  descent  into  hell. 

Once,  on  their  way  back  from  hunting,  they 
had  come  suddenly  on  a  strange  procession,  a 
gaunt  herd  of  worn-out  shadows  making  their 
last  journey,  staggering  humbly  along  the  way- 
side. It  was  a  haunting  tragedy.  Staring 
ribs,  hollow  eyes  dim  with  misery, — and  the 


218 

cursing  driver  thrashing  one  that  had  fallen, 
and  lay  in  a  quivering  heap  on  the  grass.  She 
had  asked  what  this  horror  was.  .  .  .  Just 
a  shipload  of  useless  horses  travelling  in  the 
dusk  their  unspeakable  pilgrimage  to  the  sea. 

And  she  had  turned  on  the  men  riding  at 
her  side.  Shame  on  them,  that  were  English, 
that  called  themselves  a  sporting  nation. 
.  .  .  What  a  lie  that  was !  she  had  cried. 

And  Barnaby  had  said — "She's  right 
there!"  and  the  other  men  had  not  laughed. 

There  were  voices  in  the  saddle-room.  One 
of  the  grooms  crossed  the  yard  whistling. 
She  was  still  leaning  her  head  against  the  old 
horse,  and  she  waited.  She  did  not  want  the 
men  to  stare  at  her  and  wonder;  she  did  not 
want  them  to  find  her  there. 

"The  master  took  out  Black  Rose,  didn't 
he?" 

"Yes.  He's  gone  down  the  fields  with  his 
Lordship." 

"Will  he  be  riding  her  in  the  Hunt  steeple- 
chases?" 

That  was  a  stranger's  voice,  not  one  of  Bar- 
naby's  servants. 

"Can't  say." — The  stud  groom  was  cau- 
tious. 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          219 

"That's  an  ugly  brute  of  his  Lordship's. 
Why  didn't  he  ride  him  here?"  said  another 
voice,  joining  in. 

"He  had  to  go  somewhere  in  the  motor,  and 
so  I'd  orders  to  bring  the  horse  over.  It  wasn't 
a  job  I  envied,"  said  Eackham's  groom. 

"If  ever  a  horse  was  a  devil,  that  one  is," 
said  the  stud  groom,  laconically. 

"Wants  a  devil  to  back  him,"  muttered 
Eackham's  man.  "I  never  ride  out  of  our 
yard  without  expecting  he'll  down  me.  Got  a 
history,  hasn't  he?" 

"Who  told  you  that?" 

."Stevens  told  me  you'd  passed  a  remark 
about  him." 

The  stud  groom  received  the  insinuating  sug- 
gestion with  a  dignity  that  was  proof  against 
pumping  for  the  space  of  a  minute.  He 
chewed  on  a  straw  discreetly.  Then  his  own 
knowledge  became  too  much  for  him. 

"If  I  told  you  his  history,  Arthur  Jones,"  he 
said  slowly,  "you'd  never  lay  your  legs  across 
him  no  more." 

"Then  for  God's  sake  tell  it,"  said  Arthur 
Jones. 

The  stud  groom  laughed  grimly.  He  was  a 
man  of  saturnine  humour,  and  liked  impressing 
his  underlings. 


220         THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

"His  Lordship  knows/'  he  said.  "If  any 
man  could  cow  a  horse,  he  can.  Weight  tells. 
IWeight  and  devilry.  But  any  other  gentleman 
buying  Prince  John  I'd  call  it  suicide.  If  I 
didn't, — according  to  circumstances,  mind 
you" — he  lowered  his  voice,  not  much,  but 
enough — "call  it  murder." 

Would  the  men  never  stop  gossiping  and 
disperse?  She  would  have  to  face  their 
curious  looks  at  last. 

"I  was  up  Yorkshire  way  when  his  Lordship 
bought  him,"  said  the  stud  groom  deliberately. 
"Four  of  us  was  leaning  over  the  bars  at  that 
auction.  Two  of  us  had  a  mourning  band  on 
the  sleeve  of  our  coats,  and  the  third  chap  had 
unpicked  the  crape  off  his  a  month  ago. 
When  they  put  Prince  John  in  the  ring  there 
came  a  frost  on  the  bidding.  They  said  he'd 
ought  to  'a  bin  shot  out  of  the  road,  and 
never  put  up  for  sale.  His  name  wasn't 
Prince  John  then.  He'd  been  run  in  two 
'chases,  owners  up; — and  he'd  killed  them 
both." 

The  men  stood  with  their  mouths  open, 
digesting  the  horrid  tale.  And  a  stable  lad 
ran  into  the  yard  from  his  vantage  point  on  a 
hillock. 

"They're  down  at  the  jumps,"  he  said, 
" — and  they're  changing  horses." 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN         221 

It  was  then  that  the  girl  came  out,  passing 
swift  as  an  apparition.  The  men  fell  back, 
touching  their  caps. 

"I'll  lay  she  heard  you,"  said  Eackham's 
man. 

The  stud  groom  looked  after  her  curiously 
and,  crossing  over  to  the  door  of  the  grey's 
box,  that  she  had  left  unfastened,  closed  it 
without  a  word. 

She  did  not  know  why  she  was  hurrying  to 
the  house.  What  half-conscious  panic  had 
seized  her  as  her  inattentive  mind  took  its  wan- 
dering impression  of  the  grooms'  idle  gossip? 
What  words  had  reached  her,  lodging  in  her 
brain  to  inspire  that  wild  sense  of  impending 
trouble?  It  was  no  good  searching  for  Bar- 
naby  in  the  house.  He  was  down  at  the  jumps, 
— changing  horses. 

"There's  a  wire  for  you,"  said  Lady  Hen- 
rietta. 

It  had  come.  At  first  she  looked  at  it 
stupidly,  as  if  it,  the  signal,  were  some  trivial 
interruption.  She  heard  herself  explaining, 
like  an  unthinking  scholar  repeating  a  half- 
forgotten  lesson.  "I  must  go  away.  I — I 
have  to  go  away." 

"Bad  news?"  asked  Lady  Henrietta 
quickly.  Susan  crumpled  the  telegram  in  her 
hand. 


222          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

"Yes,  it's  bad  news,"  she  said.  "It  is  from 
the  lawyers." 

Vaguely  she  recollected  what  she  was  to  say. 
Something  about  going  up  to  London  at  once, 
and  perhaps  on  to  America. 

"Let  me  see  it,"  said  Lady  Henrietta. 
"Yes,  it  sounds  urgent.  We'd  better  send 
somebody  to  fetch  Barnaby.  He  will  have  to 
take  you.  You  must  catch  the  afternoon 
train. ' ' 

"Yes,  I  must  catch  the  afternoon  train,"  re- 
peated Susan.  That  was  decided.  Had  not 
Barnaby  mapped  it  out?  She  wondered  dully 
how  he  had  managed  to  convey  private  instruc- 
tions for  that  impeccable  message;  but  all  the 
while  she  was  thinking,  thinking, — and  sud- 
denly she  was  conquered  by  her  wild,  unrea- 
soning fear  for  him. 

"I'll  go  and  find  him,"  she  said. 

Lady  Henrietta  demurred,  curious,  desiring 
to  cross-examine;  but  the  girl's  face  smote  her, 
and  she  forbore  to  hold  her  back. 

It  was  not  far  down  the  fields,  and  she  went 
like  a  driven  leaf,  possessed  by  a  fear  that 
would  not  be  stilled  by  reason.  She  had  gone 
down  there  sometimes  to  watch  them  schooling 
hunters,  and  she  had  ridden  the  jumps  herself, 
that  day  when  Barnaby  showed  her  how  they 
trained  steeplechasers,  with  real  wide  hedges 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          223 

and  a  movable  leaping  bar.  He  had  tried  to 
prevent  her  risking  the  double,  bristling  with 
difficulty,  and  she  had  defied  him,  larking  over 
it,  and  then  galloping  back  to  him  to  say  she 
was  sorry. 

She  counted  the  fences  mechanically  as  they 
came  up  one  by  one,  visible  against  the  winter 
sky;  lines  of  artificial  ramparts,  defended  by 
a  guard  rail,  made  up  with  furze; — and  the 
lapping  rim  of  that  actual  water  jump.  The 
strange  thing  was  that  as  she  came  nearer  and 
nearer,  instead  of  diminishing,  her  premoni- 
tion grew.  She  talked  to  herself  to  keep  down 
her  panic. 

Why  were  so  few  men  killed  steeplechasing? 
Because  it  was  dangerous,  Barnaby  had  said. 
It  was  the  rabbit  holes  and  the  mole-hills  and 
the  grips  that  broke  your  neck  unawares. 
.  .  .  That  was  the  gate  he  had  shut  between 
them,  he  sitting  on  his  horse  on  the  far  side 
laughing,  while  she  practised  hooking  the  latch 
and  pushing  it  back  with  the  handle  of  her 
whip.  He  had  shown  her  first  the  nail  studded 
in  the  horn  of  the  handle  to  keep  it  from  slip- 
ping;— and  then  he  had  clapped  the  gate  shut, 
declaring  that  till  she  opened  it  fairly,  with- 
out his  help,  she  should  never  pass.  And  she 
had  ridden  through  triumphantly  at  last.  It 
was  the  only  thing  he  had  had  to  teach  her. 


224         THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

How  quaint  they  were,  these  heavy  wooden 
latches.  .  .  .  She  let  the  gate  swing  and 
ran. 

Rackham  was  on  Black  Rose,  and  Barnaby 
on  a  chestnut.  They  were  walking  their  horses 
when  she  caught  sight  of  them,  and  Barnaby 
was  letting  his  look  over  a  fence,  flicking  his 
whip  at  the  ridge  of  furze  with  its  withering 
yellow  blossom.  They  were  not  talking  loud, 
but  she  thought  his  voice  sounded  angry.  The 
chestnut  was  restive. 

"Keep  still,  you  brute!"  he  said. 

Something  was  wrong  between  the  two 
men.  Some  old  antagonism  had  flared  up, 
rousing  them  to  a  hot  discussion.  The  chest- 
nut lifted  his  forefeet  off  the  ground, 
and  Barnaby  shook  his  bridle  carelessly,  warn- 
ing him  again  to  be  quiet.  Then  all  at  once 
up  he  went,  seizing  the  unguarded  moment. 

•         •         • 

Crash! 

The  girl  saw  him  rise,  saw  him  stagger,  fall- 
ing back  on  his  rider ;  and  she  ran  on  with  sob- 
bing breath. 

The  chestnut  rolled  over  sideways  and  strug- 
gled on  to  his  legs.  A  little  way  off  the  mare 
was  plunging,  upset  by  what  was  happening; 
she  could  hardly  be  controlled.  Susan  had 
reached  Barnaby,  she  had  thrown  herself  down 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          225 

beside  him  to  lift  his  head  from  the  rough 
grass  where  he  lay  so  still.  Rackham  had  dis- 
mounted; he  was  coming  to  help; — but  she 
was  out  of  her  mind  with  terror.  She  caught 
up  Barnaby's  whip,  springing  to  her  feet, 
lashing  at  him  as  if  he  were  a  wild  beast  that 
she  must  keep  at  bay.  Then  she  dropped  on 
her  knees  again,  and  laid  her  cheek  on  Bar- 
naby's heart,  and  the  turf  was  heaving  up 
round  them  both. 

Far  off,  indistinct,  she  heard  troubled  whis- 
pers, and  one  quite  close. 

"He's  breathing  still,  my  lady."  (That  was 
the  stud  groom,  who  had  formerly  served  a 
countess.  He  always  addressed  her  so.)  She 
looked  up  at  him. 

"He's  living  yet,  my  lady,"  the  man  repeated 
in  an  awed  undertone.  "Best  not  try  to  move 
him.  They've  sent  a  car  for  the  doctor.  Best 
let  him  lie  till  they  come.  .  .  . " 

He  knelt  on  the  other  side,  and  one  of  the 
men  stood  over  him  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  fold- 
ing up  his  coat.  With  significant  carefulness 
they  raised  Barnaby's  head  a  little  and  slipped 
it  under.  And  then  they  all  waited  and 
watched  for  a  hundred  years.  .  .  . 

When  the  doctor  came  he  was  still  uncon- 
scious. Something  was  broken,  and  there  was 
bad  concussion.  It  was  possible  he  might  be 


226          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

injured  internally,  strained,  crushed, — a  cur- 
sory examination  could  not  make  sure.  They 
stripped  a  hurdle  of  its  furze,  and  he  was 
lifted  and  laid  upon  it;  the  men  hoisted  it  on 
their  shoulders  and  tramped  with  a  dreadful 
slowness  through  the  fields  to  the  house. 

"I'll  ride  on  and  break  it  to  his  mother," 
said  Rackham,  averting  his  eyes  from  Susan  as 
he  spoke  to  her. 

"Yes,"  she  said  dully.  She  had  forgotten 
him. 

And  as  it  often  is,  the  one  who  was  thought 
least  fitted  to  support  a  shock  took  it  coolly. 
A  lengthy  experience  of  hunting  accidents 
helped  her  to  seize,  comforted,  on  Eackham's 
report  of  concussion,  and  to  believe  in  his  blunt 
assurance  that  the  whole  thing  was  nothing 
worse  than  an  ordinary  spill.  A  more  diplo- 
matic messenger  might  have  terrified  her  with 
his  gentleness,  but  she  suspected  no  conceal- 
ment in  a  man  who,  without  beating  about  the 
bush,  looked  her  right  in  the  face  and  lied. 
She  did  not  see  the  men  carry  their  burden  in, 
and  when  the  others  came  to  her,  relieving 
Eackham,  she  was  comparatively  calm.  Her 
active  fancy  was  diverted  by  measures  that 
she  ascribed  to  a  misplaced  anxiety  for  her- 
self. 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          227 

"I  am  not  going  to  collapse,"  she  insisted. 
"It's  too  ridiculous  making  this  fuss  about  me 
and  not  letting  me  go  to  him.  It's  not  the 
first  time  the  poor  boy  has  been  brought  back 
to  me  knocked  silly.  You  needn't  be  so  fidgety 
over  me; — you  had  better  look  after  Susan. 
.  .  .  My  dear,  my  dear,  I  know  what  it  is ! 
And  concussion  is  a  thing  the  doctors  can't 
cut  you  to  pieces  for,  thank  Heaven.  Give  her 
a  little  brandy!" 

Rackham's  glance  met  the  doctor's.  The 
case  was  too  serious  to  provoke  a  smile. 

Lady  Henrietta  had  turned  to  Susan. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  with  the  air  of  one  who 
wished  to  demonstrate  to  an  over-anxious  cir- 
cle that  she  had  her  wits  about  her — ' '  that  tele- 
gram— !  Of  course  you  can't  go  now.  We 
must  wire  up  to  town. — " 

The  girl  listened  to  her  without  at  first  com- 
prehending. 

"Oh, — the  telegram,"  she  repeated.  How 
pathetically  absurd  that  futile  invention 
sounded  now. 

"I  must  go  to  him,"  she  said. 

The  doctor  nodded  encouragement. 

"I'll  bring  a  nurse  back  with  me  when  I 
come  again,"  he  promised. 

Into  the  girl's  pale  cheek  came  a   sudden 


228          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

colour.  She  lifted  her  head  and  her  eyes  shone. 
She  held  out  her  hand,  and  all  at  once  it  was 
steady. 

"No  one  else; — no  one  but  me!"  she 
cried. 

Oh,  the  farce  was  not  played  out;  the  cur- 
tain was  not  down.  She  was  still  his  wife  to 
that  audience;  it  was  to  her  he  belonged,  to 
no  other.  .  .  .  Desperately  she  stood  on 
her  rights; — the  poor,  fictitious  rights  she  had 
purchased  with  all  that  pain. 

"You  can't  nurse  him,"  the  doctor  was  say- 
ing gently.  "You'd  break  down;  you  would 
make  yourself  ill.  You  don't  know  what  you 
would  be  undertaking." 

But  Barnaby's  mother  was  on  her  side. 

"Fiddlesticks!"  said  she.  She  had  bright- 
ened unaccountably;  in  her  voice  ran  a  queer 
little  tremour  of  satisfaction.  "Let  her  make 
herself  ill  if  she  likes.  Why  shouldn't  she? 
I've  no  patience  with  modern  vices,  calling  in 
hirelings — !  A  wife's  place  is  with  her  hus- 
band, not  quaking  outside  his  door." 

Susan  was  looking  bravely  in  the  doctor's 
doubtful  face. 

"You  can  trust  me,"  she  said,  on  her  pale 
lips  a  wistful  flicker  that  hardly  was  a  smile. 
— "I  too  was  a — hireling,  once.  I  know 
how." 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          229 

She  knew  lie  must  yield.  What  man 
would  dare  to  stop  her?  What  man  would 
dare  to  dispute  her  claim!  Only  Barnaby  him- 
self, who  might  one  day  laugh  at  the  tragic 
humour  of  her  assumption.  A  kind  of  de- 
spairing joy  shook  her  soul,  and  was  blotted  in  a 
passionate  eagerness  of  devotion.  Barnaby 
was  hurt,  perhaps  dying,  .  .  .  and  noth- 
ing could  conjure  her  from  his  side. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  house  had  become  very  quiet. 

Under  Barnaby's  windows  and  right  down 
the  avenue  the  crunching  granite  was  spread 
with  tan.  The  servants  moved  silently  about 
their  work,  even  in  the  far  kitchens  whence  not 
a  sound  could  be  heard. 

For  a  long  time  he  was  unconscious;  for  a 
long  time  he  lay  breathing  heavily,  and  they 
could  not  tell  if  he  was  in  pain.  Other  doctors 
came  down  from  London,  and  Lady  Hen- 
rietta had  to  be  told  what  it  was  that  the  girl 
was  fighting  with  that  pale  and  steady  face. 

''It's  love,  sheer  love,  that  keeps  her  going," 
said  one  witness  to  another,  watching  her 
courage  in  the  deeps  of  agony  and  uncertainty, 
and,  at  last,  in  the  breakers  of  hope. 

She  was  safe-  in  giving  herself  without  stint, 
because  for  a  long  while  he  did  not  know  her, 
and  it  did  not  matter  to  him  who  it  was  that 
was  soothing  him  with  a  passionate  gentleness 
of  which  his  jarred  brain  would  have  no  knowl- 
edge when  it  recovered  its  normal  tone.  She 
could  sit  at  his  bedside  hushing  him,  whisper- 
ing that  she  loved  him,  she  loved  him,  and  he 
must  sleep. 

230 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          231 

Sometimes  he  talked  to  her  in  unintelligible 
mutterings,  sometimes  his  rambling  speeches, 
without  beginning  or  end,  were  bitter  to  un- 
derstand. 

"You  mustn't  mind  what  he  says,"  the  doc- 
tor warned  her  kindly.  "It's  certain  to  be 
rubbish.  Generally  they  go  over  and  over 
some  silly  thing  they  remember. — I  had  a  pa- 
tient once  who  got  into  fearful  trouble  through 
winding  off  something  about  a  murder  he  had 
read  in  a  book." 

— That  was  after  he  had  stood  awhile  listen- 
ing gravely  to  Barnaby's  restless  talk. 

— "I'll  find  a  way  out.  Wait  a  bit,  my  dar- 
ling. .  .  .  We'll  not  have  our  lives  ruined 
by  that  mad  marriage.  I'll  find  a  way  out  for 
us." 

It  was  not  always  the  same.  Sometimes  in 
the  night  it  would  be — "I  tell  you  she's  my 
wife.  No,  no,  not  the  other.  Awfully  good 
joke,  what?  Mustn't  lose  my  head,  though; 
mustn't  lose  my  head." 

And  Susan  would  lay  her  cheek  against  his 
in  an  agony  lest  he  should  hurt  himself  with 
his  excitement. 

"Sleep!"  she  would  whisper,  "oh,  my  dear- 
est, lie  still  and  sleep.  .  .  ." 

"But  I  love  her.  Don't  you  know  that?  I 
can't  marry  my  girl.  Because  I  love  her; — 


232          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

just  because  I  love  her — mustn't  lose  my 
head!" 

Once  after  she  had  quieted  him,  and  he  had 
lain  a  little  while  motionless  he  called  her. 

1  'Are  you  there?"  he  said.  His  voice  was 
so  sensible  that  she  trembled. 

"Yes,"  she  said  softly,  and  he  gave  a  sigh 
of  content.  But  soon  he  was  muttering  again, 
and  restless. 

"She  wants  me  to  sleep,"  he  was  repeating, 
"she  wants  me  to  sleep." 

No,  he  had  not  known  who  she  was.  She 
bent  over  him,  smoothing  his  forehead  with  a 
tender  and  anxious  hand.  Sometimes  her 
touch  was  magnetic. 

"Yes,"  she  said.    "Hush,  my  dearest." 

"Kiss  me,"  he  murmured  suddenly,  "and 
I'll  go  to  sleep." 

And  since  at  all  costs  he  must  be  coaxed  to 
slumber,  she  kissed  him  for  the  woman  who 
was  not  there. 

•  ••  •••  •  •• 

Slowly  he  turned  the  corner,  slowly. 

And  at  last  she  found  him  watching  her  one 
morning  as  she  came  towards  him  with  a  cup 
in  her  hand,  across  the  great,  wide  room.  She 
liked  this  room;  it  was  so  vast  and  simple. 
Its  battered  furniture  must  have  been  his 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          233 

when  he  was  a  boy.  And  there  was  no  clutter 
of  pictures  and  photographs;  only  a  few  an- 
cient oil-paintings  of  hounds  and  horses. 
Above  his  bed  a  square  patch  in  the  wall-paper 
that  was  unfaded,  betrayed  where  a  woman's 
portrait  had  hung  once  and  had  been  taken 
down. 

"Hullo! "he  said. 

He  lay  looking  at  her,  thin  and  haggard,  but 
his  whimsical  smile  unchanged. 

"It's  she,"  he  said,  "or  is  it  the  stuff  that 
dreams  are  made  of?" 

"It  is  she,"  said  Susan. 

"I've  been  ill,  haven't  I?"  he  said.  "And 
I  say,  Susan,  have  you  been  nursing  me?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  steadily. 

"I  thought  so.  I've  had  a  kind  of  feeling 
that  you  were  there.  What's  it  all  about? 
Wasn't  I  down  at  the  jumps  with  Eackham, — 
and  the  horse  went  up — ?  Did  I  get  dam- 
aged?" 

"Bather,"  she  said. 

"And  you  didn't  fly  to  America?" 

"No,"  she  said. 

His  weak,  amused  voice,  talking  in  pauses, 
smote  on  her  heart. 

"Ah,"  said  Barnaby.  "It  would  have 
looked  bad  if  you'd  bolted,  wouldn't  it?  No 


234          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

end  heartless.  Susan, — oh,  I've  noticed  things, 
off  and  on, — you've  been  killing  yourself  look- 
ing after  me. — " 

His  smile  was  troubled.  She  shook  her  head 
at  him. 

"You  didn't  do  it,"  he  said,  ''because,  oh, — 
because  of  some  queer  notion  that  you  owed 
us  something — f  You  didn't  do  it  to  make  it 
up  to  us, — to  pay  us  out?" 

She  put  her  arm  under  his  pillow  and,  rais- 
ing him  slightly,  lifted  the  cup  to  him  and  let 
him  drink.  If  Barnaby  could  have  known: — 
if  he  could  have  seen  her  claiming  him  in  her 
hour  of  desperation — !  If  he  could  have  dimly 
guessed  what  a  dreadful  happiness  had  walked 
hand  in  hand  with  pain!  She  had  won  some- 
thing of  her  mad  adventure.  She  was  the 
woman  who  had  nursed  him,  who  had  waked 
night  after  night  at  his  pillow.  Nobody  could 
rob  her  of  that.  And  when  she  was  gone 
he  would  perhaps  think  of  her  with  kind- 
ness. .  .  . 

"It  wasn't  remorse,"  she  said. 

"It's  awfully  good  of  you,"  said  Barnaby. 
"But  why — but  why — "  There  was  a  faint 
eagerness  in  his  puzzled  voice. 

"Perhaps,"  she  said  bravely,  "it  was  the 
dramatic  instinct.  How  could  a  poor  actress 
forget  all  her  traditions?  How  could  she  help 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN         235 

rising  to  her  part?    Don't  talk.    .    .    .    Lie 
quiet  and  laugh  at  me  all  you  want." 

*  •  •  •  •  »  * 

One  day  Lady  Henrietta  came  into  the 
room  with  a  budget  of  letters  and  all  she  could 
rake  of  gossip. 

"You  two  have  been  shut  up  so  long,"  she 
said,  "I  believe  you  have  both  forgotten  there 
is  such  a  thing  as  an  outside  world.  Why 
don't  you  ask  who  has  been  inquiring  for  you?" 

"Who  has  been  inquiring  for  me?"  said 
Barnaby. 

He  was  propped  high  in  his  pillows,  and 
was  looking  like  himself.  In  the  afternoon  he 
was  to  dress  and  sit  in  a  chair  and  read  the 
paper. 

"Everybody,"  she  said.  "Poor  Eackham 
has  been  two  or  three  times  a  day  when  you 
were  bad.  Of  course  it  was  his  horse  that  did 
the  mischief.  He  would  not  be  satisfied  with- 
out seeing  Susan — " 

"Did  you  see  him?"  asked  Barnaby.  There 
was  something  a  little  odd  in  his  intonation. 

"Susan  see  anybody?"  exclaimed  his  mother. 
"She  had  eyes  for  nobody  but  her  patient. 
All  the  wild  horses  in  Eackham 's  stables  would 
not  drag  her  away  from  you. — He's  thinking 
of  going  abroad  for  a  bit,  he  says.  To  Amer- 
ica, or  Canada ; — he  confused  me  with  his  talk 


236         THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

of  cities  and  mines  and  mountains.  I  don't 
know  if  he  has  any  idea  of  making  a  fortune 
there  or  if  he  is  looking  out  for  a  lady.  I 
said  you  might  have  to  go  out  there  too, 
but  the  unfortunate  accident  had  postponed 
it, — and  he  said  it  was  a  bigger  place  than 
I  fancied,  but  to  let  him  know  if  he  could  be 
of  any  use  to  you.  His  manner  was  rather 
queer." 

"Poor  chap,"  said  Barnaby.  "I  daresay 
he  is  hard  up.  It  would  have  been  lucky  for 
him  if  I — Why,  what  is  the  matter,  Susan  I ' ' 

"Don't  tease  her,"  said  Lady  Henrietta. 
"You  can't  possibly  realise  what  a  fright  she 
had!"  She  turned  briskly  to  the  girl,  how- 
ever. "We  never  heard  any  more  of  that  mys- 
terious telegram  that  was  to  carry  you  off 
so  quickly  the  day  Barnaby  was  hurt,"  she 
said.  "Have  you  quite  forgotten  it?  Does 
absolutely  nothing  matter  to  you  but  him?" 

Barnaby  had  begun  to  laugh,  weakly,  uncon- 
trollably. 

"Oh,  that  will  keep,"  he  said. 

"What  do  you  know  about  it?"  said  Lady 
Henrietta,  catching  him  up  sharply.  "It  came 
when  you  were  out.  I  understood  she  was 
looking  for  you  when  she  witnessed  your 
smash.  And  I'm  convinced  it  has  never  en- 
tered her  head  from  that  day  to  this." 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          237 

Then  she  remembered  her  heap  of  letters. 

"Look  at  all  these!"  she  cried.  "All  beg- 
ging for  news  of  him!  And  the  offerings! 
There  never  was  anything  so  romantic.  .  .  . 
There's  one  old  woman  down  in  the  village 
that's  killed  her  pig  and,  Barnaby — she  sent 
up  a  delicate  bit  in  a  dish  for  you. ' ' 

"Romantic — f"  said  Barnaby. 

"Oh,  romance  has  singular  manifestations," 
said  Lady  Henrietta.  "You  never  know.  .  .  . 
There  was  that  girl  of  Bessy's,  for  example, 
who  used  to  write  poetry. — She  was  too 
romantic,  poor  thing,  and  that 's  why  she  never 
married. — She  went  in  for  hero-worship.  Used 
to  go  into  kind  of  trances  of  adoration  over 
a  famous  soldier  that  she  had  never  seen.  And 
once  I  tumbled  over  her  sitting  on  the  hearth- 
rug with  her  hands  clasped  behind  her  head, 
gazing  with  a  rapt  expression  into  the  fire.  I 
thought  she  was  fighting  his  battles  with  him 
in  her  imagination,  or  poetising;  but  she  whis- 
pered— 'Don't  interrupt  me!  I'm  darning  his 
socks. — '  " 

She  was  turning  over  her  letters. 

"Here's  one  for  you,  Susan,"  she  said. 
"It's  a  London  postmark.  A  big  hotel,  but 
rather  a  common  hand." 

Susan  took  it  indifferently.  Lady  Hen- 
rietta was  already  plunged  in  the  midst  of  a 


238          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

family  letter;  wherein  an  aunt  of  Barnaby 's 
was  presuming  to  offer  her  advice.  She  read 
out  bits  of  it  with  little  shrieks  of  scorn. 

"  'When  Toby  broke  his  leg  I  made  a  point 
of — '  Who  cares  what  folly  she  committed 
when  Toby  broke  his  leg"?  'I  do  hope,  Hen- 
rietta, you  see  that  the  doctors  do  not  permit 
the  poor  boy's  wife  to  be  in  and  out  of  the 
sick-room.  It  irritates  the  nurses.'  .  .  . 
Ah,  but  ours  is  a  romantic  sick-room!  If  we 
had  married  a  fool  like  Charlotte's  daughter- 
in-law — ! ' ' 

She  glanced  up  smiling  at  the  other  two. 
Providence,  not  she,  had  taken  the  field;  and 
she  had  faith  in  its  workings  as  efficacious. 
But  Susan  was  not  attending.  She  was  read- 
ing her  letter  still.  "My  dear,"  said  Lady 
Henrietta,  "who  is  the  common  person?" 

But  she  got  no  answer. 

"Come!  Tell  us,"  said  Barnaby;  and  at  his 
voice  Susan  started. 

"Somebody  I — used  to  know,"  she  said. 

Lady  Henrietta  had  returned  to  her  own 
correspondence.  Her  mild  curiosity  could 
wait  until  the  girl  had  finished  deciphering  the 
almost  illegible  scrawl. 

"You  might  straighten  the  pillows  for  me," 
said  Barnaby. 

She  tore  the  letter  across  and  threw  it  into 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          239 

the  fire.  Then  she  came  over  to  him  and  did 
what  he  wanted  with  a  jealous  eagerness  that 
was  new. 

"Was  it  a  worrying  letter!"  he  said,  in  a 
low  voice.  He  had  nothing  to  do  but  look  at 
her. 

"No,"  she  said,  "it  didn't  worry  me." 
But  her  tone  was  subdued,  too  quiet,  as  if  she 
had  had  a  shock. 

"I'm  eternally  grateful  to  you  for  burning 
it,  though,"  he  said;  "that  abominable  scent 
it  reeked  with  was  like  a  whiff  of  nightmare. 
I  seem  to  remember  it.  I  wonder  where  I  can 
have  run  across  a  woman  who  advertised  her- 
self like  that.  .  .  .  I'm  glad  you  burnt  it. 
Considerate  nurse.  It  was  the  only  thing  to 
do." 

She  was  grateful  to  him  for  not  insisting. 
Not  yet,  not  yet;  not  just  this  morning!  .  .  . 
Afterwards  she  would  tell  him.  .  .  .  She 
moved  away  from  his  side  and  picked  up  a 
newspaper  from  the  pile  that  lay  with  the 
letters. 

"Do  you  know  what  you  look  like?"  said 
Lady  Henrietta,  tapping  her  cheek.  "Like 
a  child  that  has  been  startled,  like  a  child  when 
an  unkind  shake  has  scattered  its  house  of 
cards." 

It  was  true.    But  such  a  tottering  house, 


240         THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

such,    a    dream-built,     precarious    house    of 
cards ! — 

Lady  Henrietta  dropped  her  voice,  osten- 
sibly to  communicate  a  paragraph  in  the  aunt's 
letter  that  was  unsuited  to  the  profane  mas- 
culine understanding. 

"I  don't  want  to  pry,"  she  said;  ''but  was 
that  by  any  chance  an  anonymous  letter  ? ' ' 

"Oh,  no,  no,  it  was  not,"  said  Susan. 

"Not  Julia's  hand  disguised!  That  woman 
is  capable  of  anything.  She's  been  here  sev- 
eral times  inquiring.  Sending  in  brazen  mes- 
sages!— " 

"Is  there  anything  in  the  paper?"  said 
Barnaby. 

Susan  glanced  hastily  up  and  down  the 
sheet.  No,  there  was  nothing.  Among  the 
theatrical  announcements  an  American  play 
that  had  come  to  London. 

"She  is  looking  in  the  advertisements!"  said 
Lady  Henrietta,  affectionately  scornful.  "My 
dear,  the  poor  boy  is  thirsting  for  murders  and 
politics." 

The  advertisements.  .  .  .  And  among 
them — 

"To-night  at  8. 

"The  Great  American  Comedy — 'Shut  Tour 
Windows'  .  .  .  Mr.  Rostiman's  Company. 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          241 

Mr.  Hayes,  Mr.  Vine  .  .  ."  (a  long  list  of 
names  that  were  unknown  to  her,  and  unmean- 
ing) ; — "And  Miss  Adelaide  Fish." 

Barnaby  was  up  and  dressed. 

He  was  much  amused  at  his  own  weakness, 
at  his  dependence  on  that  slim,  supporting 
arm.  He  let  Susan  settle  him  carefully  in  a 
chair,  and  then  frightened  her  by  getting  on 
to  his  feet  and  pretending  to  walk  out  of  the 
room.  She  flew  to  him,  scared,  reproachful, 
making  him  lean  his  weight  on  her  shoulder  as 
she  brought  him  back. 

"Tyrannical  girl!"  he  said. 

She  looked  down  on  him  as  he  sat  there, 
dressed  and  shaved,  his  clothes  fitting  rather 
loosely,  his  blue  eyes  hollow.  How  unspeak- 
ably dear  he  was.  How  hard  to  face  empti- 
ness. .  .  . 

"I'll  put  your  mother  in  charge  of  you  while 
I  am  gone,"  she  said. 

"Don't  be  too  long,"  said  Barnaby.  "I'll 
miss  you." 

Unwillingly  her  heart  sank.  He  would  miss 
her.  In  that  little  while;  in  that  scant  half- 
hour — ! 

"Patient,"  she  said,  "you  flatter." 

And  smiled  at  him  bravely,  and  went  away. 


242          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

"I'll  go  to  him  immediately,"  said  Lady 
Henrietta.  She  was  writing  furiously,  de- 
spatching a  counterblast  to  the  aunt's  inter- 
fering letter,  which  had  contained  more  warn- 
ings than  she  had  read  aloud.  It  deserved  six 
pages. 

"How  do  you  spell  inseparable?"  she  asked, 
hardly  interrupting  the  delightful  business  of 
administering  a  slap  to  one  whose  daughters- 
in-law  were  not  wax  and  whose  sons  were  wild. 
Distractedly  she  glanced  at  Susan. 

"You  look  wan,"  she  said.  "I  told  them 
you  were  to  have  the  motor  with  the  hood  off . 
Get  all  the  air  you  can.  Do  you  mind  taking 
this  old  brooch  into  the  town  to  be  mended?" 
Her  eyes  twinkled  as  she  unpinned  it  and  put 
it  in  Susan's  hand. 

"There!"  she  said,  "that  will  make  sure 
you  don't  hurry  back  too  soon,  pretending  you 
have  had  your  breath  of  air." 

The  girl  went  into  her  own  room  and  slipped 
on  a  hat  and  coat.  While  she  tied  a  veil  round 
her  head  she  remembered  that  in  the  diamond 
star,  which  was  the  only  thing  in  the  house  that 
was  her  own,  a  stone  was  loose.  Since  she 
must  go  in  to  the  jeweller's  on  Lady  Henri- 
etta's trumped-up  errand  she  might  as  well  take 
it  with  her. 

The   motor  was   not   round   when   she   de- 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          243 

scended,  and  she  sank  into  one  of  the  deep 
chairs  in  the  hall.  When  she  was  away  from 
Barnaby  the  strength  in  her  seemed  to  fail. 
It  had  been  heavily  tried,  and  the  strain  was 
telling  on  her,  now  that  it  was  relaxed. 

The  tan  that  had  been  scattered  on  the  ave- 
nue still  deadened  the  sound  of  wheels.  But 
she  saw  Macdonald,  who  was  waiting  to  pack 
her  into  the  car,  moving  to  the  door;  and 
rising,  she  went  towards  it.  She  had  not  time 
to  draw  back  as  she  saw  her  mistake,  for  Julia 
was  on  the  steps. 

Swift  in  seizing  her  opportunity  the  visitor 
walked  in  at  the  open  door.  There  was  some- 
thing belligerent  in  her  entrance. 

"How  is  he?"  she  asked,  without  preamble, 
addressing  Susan.  Macdonald  had  fallen  back 
discreetly. 

"He  is  better,"  said  Susan  coldly.  "I  have 
to  go  out,  Miss  Kelly." 

"I  must  see  him,"  said  Julia,  in  a  low,  in- 
tense voice  that  would  not  be  denied.  "I've 
tried  and  tried,  but  they  never  would  let  me 
in.  You  will  take  me  to  him. ' ' 

"If"  said  Susan. 

Julia  did  not  blench  under  these  accents  of 
proud  surprise. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "You  daren't  refuse  me. 
I  know  too  much. ' ' 


244         THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

The  assurance  in  her  voice  warned  the  girl 
that  this  was  no  hysterical  vapouring,  but  a 
challenge.  She  answered  her  bravely,  main- 
taining an  outward  calm. 

"I  am  sorry  I  cannot  do  as  you  wish,"  she 
said. 

How  lovely  the  woman  was,  with  her  angry 
flush,  and  her  long-lashed  eyes.  How  reck- 
lessly she  spoke.  Some  theatrical  impulse  in 
her  had  overridden  prudence;  whoever  liked 
might  have  heard  her.  .  .  .  With  that  odd 
irrelevance  that  keeps  the  mind  steady  under 
fire  Susan  was  wondering  who  it  was  that  had 
said — "Yes,  she's  a  beauty,  but  the  back  of 
her  neck  is  common — " 

"You  have  no  right  to  keep  us  apart,"  said 
Julia.  "I've  been  patient  .  .  .  but  this 
is  too  much!  After  all  I'm  not  stone;  I'm  a 
woman —  With  all  the  world  gabbling  about 
you  and  your  devotion — !  I  daresay  you 
think  you  are  getting  an  influence  over  him. 
Poor  Barnaby — !  All  this  while  you  have  had 
him  at  your  mercy!" 

She  fixed  her  eyes  on  Susan  with  an  inde- 
scribable stare  of  scorn. 

"Will  you  take  me  to  him  I"  she  said. 

"I  will  not,"  said  Susan. 

Julia  came  nearer.    They  were  practically 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          245 

alone.    Macdonald   was   putting   rugs   in   the 
motor. 

"I  believe  you  are  fond  of  him,"  she  said 
ruthlessly.  "Fond  of  him!  You  the  cheat, 
you  the  impostor — I" 

Ah, — she  had  known  what  was  coming. 
She  had  read  it  in  Julia's  eyes.  Desperately 
she  stood  her  ground. 

"You  insulted  me  once  before,"  she  said 
slowly. 

"Yes,"  said  Julia.  "Even  then  I  was  not 
blinded.  .  .  .  But  now  I  know.  I've 
known  ever  since  the  Hunt  Ball,  when  Bar- 
naby — " 

"Barnaby — f"  Susan  repeated  the  word 
under  her  breath  as  if  it  was  strange  to  her. 

" — When  Barnaby  said  that  you  were  not 
his  wife." 

The  girl  stretched  out  her  hands  uncon- 
sciously for  a  support  that  she  did  not  find. 
There  was  a  mist  between  them,  and  she 
swayed  on  her  feet.  Weak  in  spirit  and  body 
from  her  long  nursing,  she  felt  as  if  someone 
had  struck  her  a  whirling  blow.  In  a  kind 
of  vision  she  saw  Barnaby  and  Julia  dancing; 
— always  Barnaby  and  Julia  dancing; — peo- 
ple had  talked  that  night;  they  had  sympa- 
thised with  her.  .  .  .  Well  might  Julia 


246          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

laugh  at  her  disapproving  world  if  he  had  whis- 
pered— that!  And  it  was  true.  She  had  only 
to  look  in  Julia's  triumphant  face  to  know  that 
this  thing  was  true. 

She  could  not  speak.  She  turned  and 
walked  slowly  towards  the  stairs,  and  began  to 
go  up.  On  the  landing  above  she  waited  until 
Julia  had  reached  her  side.  Then  she  went 
along  the  corridor  without  turning  her  head 
until  they  had  come  to  the  end. 

At  Barnaby 's  door  she  stopped  and,  turning 
the  handle,  spoke  at  last  to  the  other  woman, 
the  woman  to  whom  he  had  betrayed  her. 

"Go  to  him,"  she  said. 

And  without  another  word  she  left  her,  and 
left  the  house. 

Barnaby  looked  up,  surprised. 

Susan  must  have  started,  and  Lady  Hen- 
rietta would  not  open  his  door  so  slowly.  Who 
was  this  rustling  on  his  threshold? 

She  took  a  little  run  into  the  room,  and 
stopped. 

* '  Oh,  Barnaby ! ' '  she  cried  emotionally.  ' '  At 
last—!" 

His  unresponsiveness  was  thrown  away  on 
her  excited  mood.  Flushed  with  victory  she 
misread  his  expression,  less  like  rapture  than 
consternation. 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          247 

"This  is  a  bit  unexpected,"  lie  said.  "I'm 
not  in  very  good  form,  Julia.  I'm  afraid  I 
must  ask  you  to  excuse  me — " 

"Was  I  too  sudden?"  she  said.  "Ah,  poor 
Barnaby;  how  you  are  altered; — how  ill  you 
look!  Let  me  do  something  for  you — " 

She  rushed  at  him  with  enthusiasm,  casting 
a  glance  around  her  for  illumination,  and  he 
could  but  smile  at  her  hasty  gesture,  not  yet 
grasping  its  full  significance,  not  realising  the 
jealous  self-assertion  that  lay  behind  her  be- 
wildering readiness  to  push  him  back  in  his 
chair,  to  shake  up  his  pillows,  to  administer 
some  potion. 

"I  don't  want  anything,  thanks,"  he  said. 
He  was  still  grappling  with  the  problem  of  her 
appearance. 

"Oh — "  she  cried,  desisting,  "to  think  of 
you,  helpless  all  this  time,  and  in  the  hands  of 
that  woman — !" 

"Are  you  speaking  of  my  wife?"  he  said. 

Julia  laughed  softly,  reproachfully,  and  let 
her  eyes  rest  on  his. 

'  *  Foolish  man ! ' '  she  said.  ' '  You  might  have 
trusted  me.  Think  what  I've  had  to  endure! 
Wasn't  I  punished  enough  for  that  ancient 
misunderstanding?  Did  you  think  I  was  so 
vindictive  that  you  dared  not  confide  in  me? 
But  I  would  have  shared  your  burdens.  For 


248          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

your  sake  I  could  even  forgive  your  mother." 

What  was  she  driving  at?  His  mouth  set  in 
a  stiff  line  that  might  have  warned  her  if  she 
had  not  been  so  sure. 

"I  meant  to  wait,"  she  said,  "to  pretend  I 
was  ignorant  like  the  rest;  to  hug  the  secret 
till  you  struggled  out  of  that  wicked  tangle 
and  came  to  me.  I  understand  you  so  well. 
I  knew  for  whose  sake  you  were  trying  to  avoid 
a  scandal.  Oh,  Barnaby,  how  mad  it  was — 
and  how  like  you — ! ' ' 

"Julia,"  he  said,  "what  do  you  mean?" 

She  missed  the  dangerous  note  in  his  voice, 
too  quiet. 

"I'm  not  angry  with  you — now,"  she  said 
caressingly.  "But,  Barnaby,  was  it  fair  to  me? 
People  are  so  uncharitable  .  .  .  they  talked 
cruelly  about  us.  And  if  I  hadn't  known  that 
she  was  not  your  wife, — if  I  hadn't  known  you 
were  free — " 

"That's  a  mistake,"  he  said  grimly.  "I  am 
not  free." 

She  stared  at  him.  So  great  was  her  gift  of 
illusion,  so  invincible  the  vanity  that  in  her  was 
the  breath  of  life,  that  she  had  put  down  his 
stiffness,  his  strangeness,  to  the  effort  to  keep 
his  feelings  in  control.  The  glad  shock  of  her 
visit  must  have  been  almost  too  much  for  him. 
But  what  was  that  he  was  saying? 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          249 

"Oh,"  she  burst  out.  " Don't  tell  me  she 
has  entrapped  you!  That's  what  I  was  afraid 
of;  that's  why  I  felt  I  must  see  you  at  all 
risks,  in  spite  of  all  opposition.  I  knew  she 
would  try  to  take  advantage  of  your  weakness 
while  you  were  her  prisoner,  while  you  lay  here 
at  her  mercy,  no  match  for  her — ! ' ' 

No,  he  was  not  strong  yet.  His  forehead 
was  wet  and  his  mouth  was  dry.  He  had  a 
curious  longing  to  find  himself  back  in  that  cool 
bed  yonder. 

"Oh,  for  God's  sake,"  he  cried.  "Stop 
talking  nonsense ! ' ' 

His  adjuration  checked  her  passionate  speech. 
She  remained  gazing. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said  slowly,  "how  you 
got  hold  of  your — hallucination.  I  don't  know 
on  what  grounds  you  are  making  that — accusa- 
tion. Did  I  hear  you  say  that  Susan  was  not 
my  wife?  Don't  repeat  it." 

Julia  drew  a  quick  breath  of  amazement. 

"Barnaby!"  she  gasped,  in  an  incredulous, 
startled  voice. 

"Don't  repeat  it,"  he  said  stubbornly.  Yes, 
the  old  fire  was  extinguished,  the  old  spell 
shattered.  And  still  she  gazed  at  him,  unable 
to  comprehend.  All  at  once  she  began  to  laugh. 

"She  did  not  deny  it!"  she  said.  "At  first 
she  tried  to  keep  me  from  you,  but  when  I 


250          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

told  her  I  knew  all, — that  you  had  confessed  it 
yourself, — she  was  beaten.  Oh,  anybody  who 
saw  her  face  would  have  known  the  truth ! ' ' 

She  was  frightened  then.  His  eyes  were  so 
blue  and  blazing. 

"You  told  Susan,"  he  repeated,  "that  I — 
that  /  had  said  she  was  not  my  wife?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  still  defiant,  but  quailing 
a  little  before  his  look. 

He  stood  up.  He  was  regarding  her  with 
an  expression  that  held  no  memories  of  the 
past.  It  was  all  blotted  out;  no  trampled 
passion,  no  hidden  tenderness  stirred  in  him 
to  excuse  her. 

"If  you  were  not  a  woman — !"  he  said,  in 
an  implacable  tone  that  was  unknown  to  her. 
* — "You  had  better  go." 

"What  a  monster  I  am!"  said  Lady  Hen- 
rietta. "How  neglectful! — Was  I  more  than 
five  minutes'?  You'd  have  rung  if  you'd 
wanted  me,  wouldn't  you?  Poor  boy,  were  you 
very  dull?" 

"It's  nearly  time  for  her  to  come  back,"  he 
said. 

He  was  looking  tired.  Getting  up  had  not 
done  him  good.  Feeling  somewhat  guilty  his 
mother  sat  down  to  amuse  him  and  make  up 
for  her  lapse  by  half  an  hour's  brisk  attention. 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          251 

Somehow  his  curious  depression  affected  her. 
She,  too,  began  to  listen  for  the  motor. 

"I  told  her  not  to  hurry  back,"  she  said 
apologetically,  as  time  went  by.  " She's  been 
doing  far  too  much.  If  she  doesn't  take  care 
of  herself  now  you're  better,  she  will  break 
down. ' ' 

1  'Wasn't  that  the  car?"  said  Barnaby. 

But  no  light  step  came  hurrying  up  the  stairs. 

"I'll  ask,"  said  Lady  Henrietta,  and  rang. 
The  servant  who  came  knew  nothing,  and  was 
sent  down  to  make  inquiries.  She  was  puzzled 
by  the  report. 

"I  can't  understand  this!"  she  said. 
"Barnaby — they  say  the  car  has  come  back 
without  her." 

His  look  alarmed  her.  She  jumped  up 
quickly. 

"I'll  see  the  man  myself,"  she  said;  "it  must 
be  some  ridiculous  blunder." 

She  was  a  long  time  downstairs.  When  she 
came  back  she  was  bewildered  and  indignant. 

"They  tell  me,"  she  said,  "that  Julia  Kelly 
has  been;  that  she  saw  Susan  before  she  went 
out—" 

"She  came  up  here,"  said  Barnaby. 

"So  the  servants  tell  me,"  she  said.  "I  can 
hardly  believe  it — !  And  the  man  says  that 
Susan  made  him  drive  her  straight  to  the  sta- 


252          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

tion.  He  heard  her  ask  when  there  was  a  train 
to  London.  There  is  no  message — " 

Anger  was  struggling  in  her  voice  with  ap- 
prehension. She  looked  suspiciously  at  her 
son. 

"Barnaby — "  she  said  emphatically,  "if  this 
is  Julia's  doing — I'll  never  forgive  either  of 
you ! ' ' 

He  had  got  on  his  feet,  and  stood  uncer- 
tainly, as  if  measuring  his  strength.  The  look 
on  his  face  struck  her  into  silence. 

"Don't  couple  me  with  Julia,"  he  said,  set- 
ting his  teeth.  The  sweat  was  glistening  like 
dew  on  his  forehead.  "Poor  little  girl  .  .  . 
poor  little  girl.  ...  So  she's  gone.  Why, 
what's  the  matter  with  me?  What  an  incapa- 
ble fool  I  am ! — How  am  I  to  go  and  find  her  if 
I  can't — walk — straight  across  a  room — 1" 


CHAPTER  XIII 

ALL  London  was  placarded  with  that  American 
play. 

It  ran  through  the  streets  in  big  letters  on 
the  omnibuses;  it  walked  in  tilting  lines  in 
the  gutter;  it  stared  out  from  all  the  hoard- 
ings with  the  wide  smile  of  its  principal  actress 
.  .  .  Adelaide  Fish. 

And  it  was  the  gaudy  poster  that  startled 
Susan  out  of  the  unhappy  listlessness  that  had 
fallen  on  her.  Facing  her  suddenly  it  arrested 
her  wandering  step. 

Adelaide  Fish.  .  .  .  Had  the  world  stood 
still  after  all,  and  was  it  this  morning  that  she 
had  had  a  letter  .  .  .f 

"Hideously  inartistic,"  said  one  passer-by; 
to  another. 

"Still  she's  handsome.  I've  seen  her.  One 
of  these  big  women — " 

Yes,  it  was  inartistic.  Beds  and  blues  and 
greens  in  vivid  splashes,  and  the  name  writ 
large.  A  marvellous  jump  from  the  bankrupt 
shifts  of  the  Tragedy  Company  to  this  smiling 
elevation.  And  Barnaby  was  still  ignorant. 
He  had  not  been  warned. 

She  thought  of  him  now.  The  passionate 
253 


254          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

shame  that  had  caught  her  up  like  a  flame 
sweeping  all  before  it  had  died  out.  She  felt 
only  a  kind  of  wonder  at  herself,  looking  back. 
It  was  inevitable.  The  impossible  situation 
could  only  have  ended  so.  ...  But  in  the 
background  all  the  while  was  the  woman. 

She  tried  to  shake  off  the  lassitude  of  de- 
spair. Why  had  she  burned  the  letter?  She 
had  been  going  to  tell  Barnaby,  although  the 
writer  had  forbidden  her  to  share  its  contents 
with  him.  It  would  have  been  simpler  to  let 
him — but  no,  she  could  never  have  put  that 
letter  into  his  hands.  Hard  enough  to  look 
him  in  the  face  and  tell  him  what  she  could 
repeat ; — that  the  woman  who  was  his  wife,  the 
one  in  whose  likeness  she  had  been  masquer- 
ading, had  written,  and  was  in  England.  But 
before  she  had  spoken  Julia  had  intervened 
and  the  waters  of  bitterness  had  closed  over 
her  head. 

Barnaby  must  not  be  left  in  the  dark.  She 
had  a  wild  and  sudden  longing  to  do  something 
for  him  still;  one  last  service.  She  could  find 
out  from  this  woman  what  were  her  intentions 
towards  him  and  if  it  were  a  threat  or  a  prom- 
ise that  had  lurked  in  that  ambiguous  letter. 

She  must  ask  somebody  where  she  was. 
For  the  first  time  she  realised  her  surroundings, 
the  roar  of  the  traffic,  the  restless  street. 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          255 

Outside  the  theatre  an  interminable  train  of 
people,  wedged  tightly,  endured  with  their 
faces  turned  towards  the  gallery  stair ;  another 
line,  reaching  far  down  the  pavement  and  less 
good-humoured,  guarded  the  entrance  to  the 
pit.  The  lights  falling  on  their  faces  threw 
up  a  singular  likeness  in  expression,  a  kind 
of  touch-me-not  attitude  that  defied  their 
physical  juxtaposition.  Squeezed  like  her- 
rings, their  pained  endurance  was  heightened 
by  the  universal  lack  of  a  smile.  And  the 
lines  were  haunted  by  a  street  musician  strum- 
ming his  lamentable  tune. 

As  Susan  went  up  the  dark  entry  she  was 
pursued  by  unfriendly  glances,  the  quick  sus- 
picion that  she  was  a  late  comer  who  must  be 
turned  back  ignominiously  in  her  base  attempt 
to  push  in  at  the  head  of  the  line.  As  she 
vanished  inside  the  stage  door  there  was  an 
interested  murmur;  here  and  there  a  man  un- 
bent and  asked  his  neighbour  which  of  them 
she  was.  Then  there  was  a  click  and  the 
crowd  wenjt  surging  forward.  The  doors  were 
open. 

Miss  Fish  was  in  her  dressing-room. 

Like  one  in  a  dream  the  girl  was  breathing 
that  familiar  atmosphere  of  the  theatre.  It 
seemed  to  shut  off  for  ever  all  that  was  yester- 
day. She  stumbled  into  a  little  room  violently 


256         THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

scented,  full  of  blinding  light.  And  a  woman 
swung  round  and  seized  her  hands. 

"There  you  are!"  she  said.  "I  can't  kiss 
you — my  face  is  sticky.  I've  sent  away  my 
dresser.  Wait  till  I  shut  that  door!" 

She  made  a  dash  and  secured  it,  then  pushed 
Susan  into  a  chair. 

"I'll  have  to  make  up  while  I  talk,"  she  said. 
"Go  on;  go  on.  I'm  mad  with  curiosity!  I 
am  dying  to  hear  it  all. ' ' 

"I  had  your  letter,"  said  Susan. 

Adelaide  laughed.  Her  warm  voice  had  a 
note  of  banter. 

"I  didn't  know  but  you  had  waxed  fat  like 
Jeshurun,"  she  said.  "Wasn't  it  he  that 
kicked? — So  I  wrote  that  letter.  I  had  to  see 
you.  You  burnt  it?  You  didn't  tell  him?" 

"He  does  not  know  you  are  here,"  said 
Susan.  "He  has  been  ill."  Her  heart  was 
beating  painfully  hard;  the  air  in  this  close 
little  room  was  suffocating  her.  It  was  not 
air.  .  .  . 

' '  Yes  ? ' '  said  Adelaide.  ' '  That 's  how  I  know 
about  you.  My  dear,  don't  tell  me!  I  picked 
up  a  picture  paper  and  saw  a  piece  about  him 
and  his  accident,  and  his  devoted  American 
wife! — I'd  so  often  wondered  what  became  of 
you.  It 's  tremendous ! ' ' 

There  was  admiration  in  her  gaze  as  she 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          257 

turned  unwillingly  from  her  visitor  to  the  glass, 
smearing  her  chin  as  she  talked.  "I  did  hear 
of  him  being  alive,"  she  said.  "I  saw  that  in 
one  of  our  papers,  'English  Gentleman  Comes 
Back  from  the  Grave'  and  so  on.  I  was 
scared  when  I  thought  of  you.  They  said 
what  a  joy  it  was  to  his  wife  and  his  mother, 
and  I  thought  they  had  been  too  hasty.  But 
there  was  never  a  word  more,  though  I 
watched  the  paper.  I  decided  he  must  have 
walked  into  the  offices  here  and  said — 'I  do  not 
desire  you  to  mention  this' — I'd  heard  it  was 
done  sometimes  by  the  upper  classes.  But — !" 

Again  her  face  expressed  unqualified  ad- 
miration. "You  must  have  had  a  nerve,"  she 
said,  ' '  you  poor  kitten ! ' ' 

The  girl  sprang  up,  her  mouth  proud,  her 
eyes  imploring. 

"Adelaide,"  she  said,  "you  were  good  to 
me  once,  you — you  tried  to  help  me.  Won't 
you  believe  me  when  I  tell  you  I  am  nothing 
to  him?  It  was  all  acting,  all  acting  from  be- 
ginning to  end.  Never  real,  never  what  you 
said  in  your  letter.  I  was  only  staying  in  his 
house  playing — that — part  till  I  could  disap- 
pear without  scandal. ' ' 

"What?"  said  the  woman  bluntly.  "Has 
he  never  said  to  you — 'If  I  can  free  myself  of 
the  other  I'll  marry  you.'  " 


258          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

'  *  Oh,  never ;  never ! ' ' 

"Then,"  said  Adelaide,  "it's  not  for  your 
sake  his  lawyers  are  getting  busy,  trying  to 
find  what  they  call  flaws,  trying  to  break  his 
marriage?  They  can  try.  .  .  .  You  didn't 
know?" 

She  turned  on  the  girl  with  a  suddenness 
that  took  her  unawares ;  read  her  face. 

"He's  not  playing  you  fair!"  she  cried. 

It  was  remarkable,  just  then,  how  she  resem- 
bled Julia.  Half  dressed  as  she  was,  half 
made-up,  her  eyes  darkened,  and  scorn  on  her 
carmined  lip. 

"I'll  give  you  a  hold  over  him,"  she 
said.  "I'll  stand  by  you.  Wasn't  it  all  my 
doing?  Who's  that  knocking? — You  can't 
come  in." 

Good-nature  was  back  as  she  turned  from 
the  interruption.  She  smiled  indulgently,  as 
one  who  was  hoarding  a  gift. 

"I  wouldn't  lift  a  finger  for  him,"  she  said, 
"But  I'm  silly  over  you.  I'll  tell  you.  And 
you  can  go  back  to  him  and  make  your  bar- 
gain. ' ' 

The  girl  shut  her  lips  hard.  She  must 
listen; — for  Barnaby's  sake  she  must  listen. 
The  shamed  colour  ebbed  in  her  cheek. 

"I'm  not  mad,  or  bad, — at  least  not  to 
speak  of,"  said  Adelaide,  "but  I'm  careless. 


"  Go  on  ;  go  on.     I'm  mad  with  curiosity ! 
I  am  dying  to  hear  it  all." 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          259 

.  .  .  Oh,  I'll  give  you  your  Englishman, 
child ;  you  needn't  look  so  stricken !  I  once  had 
a  kind  of  a  romance  myself.  When  I  was  a 
young  thing  like  you  I  married  myself  to  a 
shabby  little  poet.  But  I  grew  tired  of  him 
muttering  verses  and  dreaming  things  upside 
down;  and  we  had  a  divorce,  and  I  ran  and 
left  him  and  went  on  the  stage.  And  all  the 
while  that  little  man  kept  on  writing ;  and  when 
he'd  used  up  all  his  poetry,  and  all  the  dead 
kings  and  queens,  he  woke  up  and  wrote  a 
play." 

A  queer  pride,  not  unmixed  with  tenderness, 
came  into  her  voice  at  that. 

"What  do  you  think?"  she  said.  "Nothing 
would  move  him  but  that  they  should  find  me 
out  and  give  me  the  star  part.  'I  have  had 
her  in  my  mind  all  these  years,'  he  said,  'and  it 
is  she.  No  one  but  she  shall  play  it.' — All 
these  years  that  I  had  forgotten  him,  he  was 
building  me  a  ladder — ." 

She  laughed  abruptly,  banishing  sentiment. 

"I've  done  all  the  talking,"  she  said,  "and 
I  must,  while  you  sit  there  dumb  with  your 
big  eyes  asking  me  if  it's  to  be  the  dagger  or 
the  bowl.  D'you  remember  when  I  was  Queen 
Eleanor,  and  you  were  the  Eosamond,  and  the 
boys  nearly  shouted  the  roof  down,  begging  you 
not  to  drink?  Ah,  those  times,  they  were 


260         THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

funny.  I've  shot  up  since,  like  a  rocket  into 
the  sky." 

Time  was  running  out.  Somewhere  in  the 
distance  there  was  a  blare  of  music.  She  had 
finished  making  up,  and  she  must  let  in  her 
dresser. 

" Listen  to  me,"  she  said.  "His  people 
haven't  the  clues  to  connect  a  Phemie  Watson 
they  never  heard  of  with  Adelaide  Fish. 
You'll  have  the  start  of  them.  Make  your 
terms;  make  your  terms  before  James  and  I 
go  to  housekeeping  again.  ...  I  daresay 
he'd  never  find  it  out  for  himself.  About  that 
divorce — it  was  never  fixed.  The  lawyer 
wanted  to  go  duck-shooting,  and  I  was  gone, 
and  James, — why,  they're  unbusinesslike,  these 
poets ! — he  says  he  had  always  hugged  an  inex- 
tinguishable spark — " 

She  paused,  looking  impatiently  at  her  lis- 
tener, who  was  so  silent. 

11  Don't  you  understand?"  she  said.  "I'm 
no  more  Mrs.  John  Barnabas  Hill  than  you 
are.  If  you're  wise  you'll  make  him  marry  you 
to-morrow. ' ' 

Susan  did  not  know  which  way  to  turn  when 
she  was  in  the  street.  It  seemed  much  darker ; 
it  seemed  as  if  she  were  lost. 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          261 

She  walked  blindly  on  and  on.  The  people 
were  ghosts  that  were  streaming  by;  their 
faces  that  gleamed  and  passed  did  not  lighten 
her  terrible  loneliness.  A  straw  in  that  human 
river,  she  was  afraid. 

There  was  a  post-office  on  the  other  side  of 
the  street.  She  almost  ran  to  it,  unconscious 
of  the  swift  perils  of  the  crossing. 

For  she  must  write  to  Barnaby,  and  the 
thought  of  communicating  with  him,  poignant 
as  it  was,  had  a  strange  touch  of  comfort. 
The  bare  office  became  a  harbour. 

They  gave  her  a  letter  card,  and  she  wrote 
at  the  counter,  with  the  scratching  office  pen. 
That  was  why  it  was  so  ill  written.  It  was 
ridiculous  how  such  a  trifle  hurt  her.  Was  it 
not  the  first  and  last  time  she  would  ever  write 
to  him,  and  did  it  matter  how  badly,  since  it 
was  to  tell  him  that  there  was  no  bar  between 
him  and  Julia?  .  .  . 

He  would  be  glad  to  have  it.     ... 

She  held  it  fast  an  instant  before  letting  it 
fall  into  the  yawning  slit.  She  liked  holding 
it  in  her  hand,  because  it  was  a  link  between 
her  and  all  that  lay  behind  that  curtain  of 
loneliness;  because  it  was  going  to  him.  In  a 
little  while  he  would  touch  it,  would  wonder, 
perhaps,  at  the  unknown  hand,  that  poor  scrib- 


262          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

ble — !  She  dropped  it  in  and  it  went  like  her 
own  life  into  the  dark. 

For  awhile  she  hurried,  fighting  her  choking 
terror  of  the  emptiness  that  was  left.  Why 
was  it  worse  now  than  it  used  to  be?  She  had 
been  in  strange  cities,  she  had  been  friendless. 
.  .  .  And  somewhere  behind  in  the  glitter 
that  mocked  the  darkness  there  was  still  one 
person  who  would  help  her,  if  she  asked  help ; 
who  would  be  kind  to  her  lavishly,  without 
understanding.  She  did  not  ask  herself  why 
it  was  impossible  to  turn  in  her  rudderless 
flight  and  appeal  to  the  woman  from  whom  she 
had  tried  to  guard  her  heart.  There  was  a 
gulf  between  her  and  Adelaide. 

Little  by  little  the  fear  driving  her  seemed 
to  fail,  and  all  other  emotions  grew  indistinct, 
crushed  by  an  infinite  weight  of  fatigue.  At 
last  she  could  not  think,  could  not  suffer.  She 
only  wanted  to  go  to  sleep. 

It  was  a  frost  in  Leicestershire.  There 
would  be  no  hunting. 

That  first  irrelevant  thought  struck  Susan 
as  she  felt  the  sharpness  of  the  air  breathing 
in  on  her  face.  The  narrow  window  above  her 
head  had  been  propped  a  little  way  open  with 
a  hair-brush,  and  the  curtain  that  divided  her 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          263 

bed  from  the  next  was  agitated;  she  had  a 
neighbour  who  was  astir. 

With  her  eyes  shut  the  girl  imagined  the 
grass  frozen  white,  and  the  branches  silver; 
heard  the  rapping  trot  of  a  string  of  hunters 
exercising  in  the  long  road  beneath  the  park. 

But  this  was  not  Leicestershire;  it  was  Lon- 
don, and  she  was  lying  in  a  narrow  bed  in  a 
small  square  attic.  At  the  foot  stood  a  wash- 
ing stand,  with  a  jug  and  basin,  at  the  head  a 
chest  of  drawers.  There  was  not  room  for  a 
chair. 

Was  it  last  night  she  had  followed  a  stranger 
bearing  a  candle  up  flights  and  flights  of  un- 
carpeted  wooden  stairs  1  The  weariness  of  that 
pilgrimage  obliterated  her  stupefied  sense  of 
relief  when  the  kind,  worn  woman  had  con- 
sented to  take  her  in,  her  absurd  inclination  to 
sink  down  on  the  chair  in  the  passage  and  fall 
asleep.  She  had  thought  she  would  never, 
never  cease  climbing  stairs. 

She  remembered  now. 

Lady  Henrietta  had  asked  her  once,  when 
she  and  Barnaby  had  run  up  for  the  day  to 
London,  to  call  on  an  old  governess  who  was 
ill.  "In  a  sort  of  lodging-house,"  she  had 
said.  "One  of  these  places  where  women  live 
in  hutches  and  eat  in  the  basement."  And 


264          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

the  dreariness  of  it  had  haunted  her.  Some- 
how she  had  found  her  way  there  again.  The 
old  governess  was  gone,  but  the  manageress 
recalled  her  face.  They  would  not  have  taken 
her  in  without  luggage  at  an  hotel. 

With  that  came  the  recollection  that  she  was 
penniless.  The  few  chance  shillings  that  she 
had  with  her  she  had  spent  on  her  railway 
ticket.  She  remembered  thinking  of  that  in 
the  train ; — she  remembered  finding  Lady  Hen- 
rietta's  battered  brooch  that  she  had  pinned 
in  her  dress  to  take  to  the  jeweller, — and  the 
diamond  star  that  was  the  one  thing  she  had 
to  sell.  Ah,  that  was  between  her  and  desti- 
tution. She  started  up.  What  had  she  done 
with  it?  She  had  been  too  utterly  weary  to 
think  or  care. 

The  draught  was  beating  the  dingy  dividing 
curtain  that  swung  on  its  iron  rod;  it  bulged 
like  a  sail  over  the  top  of  the  chest  of  drawers, 
sweeping  it  clear;  and  it  parted,  giving  a 
glimpse  of  a  girl  beyond  with  the  star  in  her 
hands.  She  started. 

"I  was  just  putting  it  back,"  she  said. 
"The  curtain  knocked  it  off  on  my  side.  How 
it  sparkles!" 

Susan  stretched  out  her  fingers,  a  little  too 
eagerly. 

"You  needn't  be  so  sharp,"  said  the  girl, 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN         265 

disconcerted.  "I  could  buy  heaps  like  it  for 
a  shilling  apiece  at  a  shop  in  the  Edgware 
Boad,"  and  she  threw  it  back  carelessly,  and 
began  to  whistle  to  show  she  was  not  abashed. 

She  had  a  plain,  good-humoured,  impudent 
face  and  dusty  hair.  On  her  arms  she  wore 
a  pair  of  black  stockings  with  the  feet  cut  off, 
fastened  by  safety  pins  to  her  under  bodice. 
She  was  tying  her  petticoat. 

"I  want  to  sell  this,"  said  Susan.  In  her 
loneliness  she  was  loth  to  offend  a  stranger. — 
"But  I  hope  I  shall  get  more  than  a  shilling 
for  it." 

"I'll  give  you  three,"  said  the  girl,  and  then 
was  all  at  once  smitten  with  awe.  "I  say — 
you  don't  mean  to  say  it's  real?" 

Her  off-hand  manner  became  subdued;  she 
looked  curiously  but  respectfully  at  Susan. 

"You  came  here  unexpectedly,  didn't  you?" 
she  said.  "Did  you  know  you  had  slept  all 
Sunday?  Mrs.  White  said  you  were  dead 
tired,  and  that  you  were  a  lady.  I'll  lend  you 
my  brush,  if  you  like; — and  a  bit  of  soap." 

Susan  smiled  at  this  proof  of  confidence. 

"I'll  shut  the  window,  shall  I?"  the  girl  went 
on,  letting  it  slam  as  she  withdrew  the  hair- 
brush. "I  was  airing  my  bed.  I  always 
make  it  before  I  go  down  because  I'm  anaemic, 
and  I've  no  breath  to  run  up  all  these  flights 


266          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

of  stairs  after  breakfast. — If  you  want  to  be 
private  you  can  pull  the  curtain. ' ' 

That  was  the  one  thing  she  would  not  will- 
ingly do  for  her;  with  her  own  hands  shut  out 
the  view  of  one  so  mysterious. 

The  other  sleepers  were  stirring  behind 
their  enshrouding  folds,  like  hidden  moths 
preparing  to  burst  from  the  chrysalis.  In 
one  quarter  after  another  the  heavy  breathing 
was  cut  short  by  an  awaking  sigh.  One  or  two 
emerged  with  their  jugs  and  padded  barefoot 
to  the  hot- water  tap  on  the  landing. 

"I'll  get  you  a  jugful,  shall  I?"  said  Susan's 
friend,  and  having  installed  herself  as  mistress 
of  the  ceremonies,  returned  to  the  subject  of  the 
star. 

"Mind  you  don't  try  a  pawnbroker,"  she 
said.  "If  you  take  my  advice  you'll  walk  into 
the  swaggerest  shop  in  Bond  Street,  where  they 
are  used  to  ladies." 

"Why?"  asked  Susan. 

The  girl  assumed  a  great  air  of  worldly, 
wisdom,  cocking  her  head  on  one  side  like  a 
London  sparrow. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "ihey  won't  be  so  likely 
to  lose  their  heads  over  you,  and  perhaps  ask 
you  how  you  got  it." 

She    had    not    considered    that.    Her    dis- 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          267 

mayed  look  gratified  the   girl,   who   at   once 
adopted  the  manner  of  a  protector. 

" You '11  be  all  right,"  she  said.  "They'll 
know  the  difference  in  the  Bond  Street  shops. 
It  wouldn't  do  in  the  City." 

She  had  been  in  a  jeweller's  shop  with  Bar- 
naby  once,  and  it  was  in  Bond  Street.  If  she 
could  find  it  ...  the  girl's  suggestion  had 
made  her  nervous ;  she  would  have  more  cour- 
age in  going  where  she  had  been  with  him. 
Would  they  eye  her  askance  even  there? 
Would  they  make  difficulties,  ask  questions? 
The  thought  harassed  her. 

She  lingered  a  minute  outside  the  shop,  when 
she  had  found  it ;  gazing  into  the  glittering  win- 
dow, so  preoccupied  with  her  errand  that  it 
never  entered  her  head  that  there  might  be  any- 
one who  would  recognise  her  among  the  idle 
people  that  were  abroad.  Defending  herself  by 
a  haughty  carriage  she  took  a  long  breath  and 
went  inside. 

"How  are  you?" 

She  started  as  violently  as  if  she  had  been  a 
thief.  She  had  never  expected  to  meet  this  man 
again ;  and  there  he  was,  holding  her  limp  hand 
in  his. 


268          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

"I  saw  you  over  the  way,"  he  said,  "and 
plunged  in  here  to  catch  you  and  ask  about  Bar- 
naby.  How  is  he  getting  on  1 " 

At  first  she  thought  it  must  be  in  merciless 
irony  he  was  speaking,  and  plucked  up  a  spirit 
to  defy  him.  He  had  glanced  from  her  face  to 
the  counter;  he  was  a  witness  of  her  singular 
transaction.  She  felt  his  glance  burn  her. 
What  was  he  thinking  of  it! 

"Oh,  he  is  getting  on  very  well,"  she  said 
recklessly. 

"Is  he  up  here  with  you?"  said  Eackham. 

Was  it  possible  that  he  did  not  know? — She 
gasped. 

"No,"  she  stammered.  And  now  he  looked 
at  her  more  strangely.  She  was  gathering  up 
the  price  of  her  star  and  turning  to  leave  the 
shop.  They  had  made  no  demur;  they  had 
given  her  more  than  she  dared  to  expect.  .  .  . 

"Which  way  are  you  going?"  said  Eackham. 

"Your  way  isn't  mine,"  she  said. 

He  was  keeping  at  her  side ;  she  could  not  out- 
strip his  strides  with  her  flying  little  steps. 

"But  I  want  to  talk  to  you,"  he  said  boldly. 
"You  were  a  little  beside  yourself,  weren't  you, 
at  our  last  meeting?  IVe  not  seen  you  since 
Barnaby's  accident.  .  .  .  You  blamed  me 
for  it,  didn't  you?  My  dear  girl,  if  I  had 
wanted  to  murder  him  I  wouldn't  have  been  so 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          269 

clumsy. — What  are  you  doing  in  London  all  by 
yourself!" 

That  last  question  came  suddenly,  just  when 
his  bantering  speech  had  roused  her,  and  put 
her  off  her  guard.  He  was  watching  her  face ; 
and  it  blanched. 

"What's  the  trouble!"  he  said.  "Con- 
found—!" 

He  had  cannoned  into  another  man,  whose 
approaching  figure  he  had  not  marked.  It  was 
Kilgour,  in  London  clothes,  who  blocked  the 
way,  with  a  growl  for  Eackham  and  a  friendly 
hand-grip  for  Susan. 

"Who's  the  man  charging!"  he  grumbled. 
"Though  you  can't  see  daylight  through  me, 
still  I'm  not  a  bullfinch.  Come  along,  Mrs.  Bar- 
naby;  you  are  just  the  person  I  want.  I've 
been  praying  my  gods  for  a  sympathetic  eye. 
Come  and  look  at  my  masterpiece  in  the  win- 
dow." 

His  large  presence  was  a  safeguard.  She 
could  have  clung  to  him. 

"Half  Leicestershire  is  in  Bond  Street  in  a 
frost,"  he  said.  "I  knew  I'd  run  across  some- 
body. I've  been  up  myself  since  Friday.  But 
what  is  Barnaby  doing  in  town?  What  do  the 
doctors  say!" 

What  a  fool  she  had  been  not  to  have  dreaded 
this.  Half  Leicestershire  in  Bond  Street! 


270          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

And  she  had  fled  to  London,  the  great,  engulfing 
city — !  She  could  have  laughed  wildly  at  her- 
self, at  her  childish  want  of  precaution,  her  ro- 
mantic imprudence  in  haunting  places  where 
she  had  been  with  him,  where  it  was  so  likely 
that  she  would  meet  his  acquaintances.  But 
what  would  he  think  of  her  when  he  heard  that 
she  had  been  seen  .  .  .  ? 

Mechanically  she  walked  on  a  few  paces. 
Eackham  was  still  at  her  right  hand;  he 
would  not  be  shaken  off.  And  Kilgour  was  talk- 
ing in  his  loud,  kind,  friendly  voice;  taking  it 
for  granted  that  Barnaby  and  she  were  in  town 
together.  He  did  not  guess  that  she  was  a  run- 
away. 

' '  It  came  to  me  in  a  vision  on  the  top  of  Bur- 
rough  Hill,"  he  said.  "Rain  and  mist  and  the 
setting  sun.  ...  A  kind  of  greyish-black 
gauziness  with  a  stripe  of  crimson.  There! 
What  do  you  think  of  that?" 

With  a  grandiloquent  gesture  he  pointed  out 
a  diminutive  grey  and  black  turban  throned  in 
solitary  majesty  in  the  middle  of  a  shop- win- 
dow. His  shop;  his  personal  achievement.  A 
quaint  pride  sat  on  his  good  red  face,  rough- 
ened by  wind  and  weather.  It  was  somewhat 
akin  to  the  pride  great  men  feel  in  doing  little 
things.  The  big  successes  in  life  are  too  over 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          271 

weighting ;  they  oppress  a  man  with  the  memory 
of  his  struggle,  the  long  strain,  the  effort, — > 
the  troubling  secret  of  how  he  has  fallen  short. 
Kilgour  might  have  swelled  with  pride  over 
greater  matters,  but  when  he  thought  of  them 
he  was  humble.  .  .  .  He  wagged  a  delighted 
forefinger  at  his  creation,  boasting. 

* '  There  isn  't  much  of  it, ' '  said  Eackham. 

Susan  was  between  the  two  men ;  she  felt  like 
a  caught  bird  that  dared  not  flutter,  and  she  had 
still  a  frantic  desire  to  laugh. 

' '  That 's  it, ' '  said  Kilgour.  '  *  No  feminine  ex- 
aggeration. It's  all  idea  and  no  trimming,  in- 
stead of  all  trimming  and  no  idea.  And  as  light 
as  a  feather.  I  tried  it  on  myself." 

She  was  laughing;  not  at  the  absurd  image 
his  speech  called  up,  not  at  the  picture  of  this 
bluff  sportsman  gravely  regarding  himself  in 
a  mirror,  balancing  his  insecure  idea  on  his 
close-cropped  head ; — but  at  the  tragic  absurdity 
of  her  own  position.  How  little  they  knew, 
these  men ! 

"Good-bye,"  she  said.  "I — I  am  in  a 
hurry. ' ' 

"Just  wait  a  minute,"  said  Kilgour. 
"There's  another  point  in  its  favour.  If  you 
are  in  a  hurry  you  can  clap  it  on  hind-before. 
Wait  a  bit  and  let  me  illustrate  what  I  mean. 


272          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

Two  or  three  doors  up.  You  know  this  place? 
It's  my  rival  Jane.  Now,  impartially,  let's  pick 
these  hats  to  pieces." 

But  she  interrupted  his  scientific  disparage- 
ment rather  wildly.  She  had  not  known  how 
much  she  liked  him,  Barnaby's  friend  who 
might  have  talked  to  her  of  him  if  she  had  dared 
to  loiter  for  the  sake  of  hearing  his  name  spoken 
now  and  then.  .  .  .  She  held  out  her  hand 
to  him  wistfully. 

"Good-bye,  Lord  Kilgour,"  she  said  hur- 
riedly. ' '  Good-bye ! ' ' 

He  squeezed  the  little  hand  kindly,  not  utter- 
ing his  surprise  till  she  had  vanished  from  his 
ken. 

"Bolted  into  the  very  shop!"  he  said. 
"How  like  a  woman.  Next  time  I  meet  her 
she'll  have  one  of  these  monstrosities  on  her 
head." 

He  nodded  carelessly  at  Eackham,  to  whom 
Susan  had  bidden  no  farewell,  and  strolled  on, 
hailing  his  acquaintances,  looking  in  the  shops. 
Turning  into  Piccadilly  he  saw  a  face  he  knew 
coming  towards  him  in  a  hansom,  and  raised 
his  stick. 

"Thought  it  was  you,"  he  said.  "You  don't 
look  very  fit  to  be  out.  What  do  you  mean  by 
it?  I  told  your  wife  you  had  no  business  rack- 
eting in  London. ' ' 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          273 

The  hansom  had  stopped.  Barnaby  was  lean- 
ing out,  staring  at  him. 

"What  did  you  say?"  he  asked.  There  was 
an  incredulous  eagerness  in  his  voice. 

"Eh?"  said  Kilgour,  struck  by  his  looks,  and 
sorry.  "Barnaby,  old  chap,  you  ought  to  be  in 
bed.  What's  up?  You  haven't  come  to  town 
to  consult  any  fancy  doctors?  No  complica- 
tions, are  there?  It's  generally  when  a  fellow 
is  mending  that  they  crop  up." 

"No,  it's  not  doctors,"  said  Barnaby. 
"Look  here,  Kilgour — " 

"Seems  to  me,"  said  Kilgour,  "as  if  you  had 
been  roped  in  by  Christian  Science.  Don 't  you 
know  what  a  battered-looking  ghost  you  are?" 

"I'm  all  right,"  said  Barnaby  impatiently. 
"Just  answer  me,  Kilgour.  What  did  you 
mean  by  saying  you  told  my  wife — ?" 

"I  wasn't  meddling,"  said  Kilgour  sagely, 
"I  was  offering  a  rational  opinion — " 

"Oh,  stop  fooling!"  said  Barnaby.  "Do 
you  mean  you  saw  her?" 

The  other  man  was  puzzled  by  the  urgent  note 
in  his  voice.  Then  he  laughed. 

"Missed  her  have  you?"  he  said.  "Oh,  yes, 
you  fractious  invalid, — I  saw  her." 

"When?" 

There  was  no  mistaking  it.  Barnaby  was  in 
earnest.  For  the  second  time  Kilgour  had  a 


274          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

twinge,  an  uncomfortable  recollection  of  a 
brown  leather  arm-chair  in  Wimpole  Street  and 
long  white  fingers  handling  one  or  two  queer 
little  scientific  dodges  that  pried  into  hidden 
things.  Once  he  had  had  to  go  with  a  friend. 
It  had  turned  him  sick,  that  minute  or  two  of 
waiting  in  dead  silence  to  hear  the  verdict. 
.  .  .  Had  Barnaby  been  there?  .  .  .  He 
shook  off  the  unwelcome  fancy.  If  he  knew 
anything  of  that  girl  she  would  not  let  Bar- 
naby go  into  a  lion's  den  without  her. 

"Half  an  hour  ago,"  he  said.  "With  your 
cousin  in  attendance.  I  met  them  coming  out 
of  What's-his-name's, — that  jeweller's  shop  in 
Bond  Street." 

"What?"  said  Barnaby.  He  looked  like  a 
man  whose  wits  were  staggering  under  a  mor- 
tal blow.  Then  his  mouth  set  hard,  in  a  fighting 
line. 

"Bond  Street,"  he  called  up  the  trap  to  the 
driver,  and  the  hansom  dashed  jingling  on. 
Kilgour  was  left  marvelling  on  the  kerb. 

"By  Jove!"  he  said  to  himself,  proceeding 
to  cool  his  perturbation  in  the  peaceable  at- 
mosphere of  his  club,  and  stoutly  refusing, 
though  troubled  in  mind,  to  draw  the  inevita- 
ble conclusion. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

SUSAN  hardly  knew  how  she  reached  the  dreary 
place  that  was  her  refuge.  Meeting  Eackham 
had  shaken  her.  An  unaccountable  restless- 
ness took  possession  of  her  as  she  thought  of 
him;  she  felt  him  pursuing  her;  she  had  an 
impulse  to  run  and  run  until  she  was  hidden 
from  the  penetrating  intentness  of  his  regard. 
In  the  shop  whither  she  had  fled  she  had  tried 
to  argue  with  herself,  but  it  had  been  useless. 
The  relief  with  which  she  had  found  herself 
for  the  moment  free  from  him  taught  her  too 
much. 

She  had  glanced  desperately  backwards. 
He  was  not  walking  on  with  Kilgour.  .  .  . 
What  did  she  want;  what  excuse  had  she  for 
staying  till  he  was  gone?  She  must  buy  some- 
thing. Clothes  for  travelling; — was  she  not 
going  to  America? — and  she  had  nothing,  not 
even  a  handkerchief. 

The  suggestion  steadied  her.  How  soon 
could  she  sail?  She  must  find  out  at  once; 
must  engage  her  passage. — They  had  nothing 
but  hats  in  here,  but  an  assistant  directed  her 
to  another  shop  upstairs. 

Recklessly, — since  the  prices  here  were  ex- 
275 


276          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

travagant  prices  for  one  who  had  only  a  handful 
of  sovereigns  between  her  and  want, — she  made 
purchases.  It  seemed  to  quiet  her  silly  agita- 
tion, to  restore  to  her  something  of  her  de- 
spairing calm. 

But  when  she  issued  into  the  street  again 
panic  ruled  her.  She  could  not  breathe  freely 
until  she  was  far  from  this  dangerous  neigh- 
bourhood, until  at  last  she  was  shut  inside  the 
gloomy  house  in  a  side  street,  that  barred  out 
imaginary  pursuers  with  the  massive  security 
of  its  blistered  door. 

But  she  must  go  out  again;  she  must  dis- 
cover how  quickly  she  could  sail: — perhaps 
she  was  missing  an  opportunity. 

The  girl  who  had  talked  to  her  in  the  morn- 
ing came  in  and  brushed  against  her  as  she 
passed  in  the  dim  hall. 

"Oh,  it's  you!"  she  said,  stopping.  "How 
dark  it  is  in  the  passage !  I  wish  they  'd  light 
the  gas.  How  did  you  get  on?  I  found  some- 
thing else  of  yours  up  there.  It  didn't  look 
worth  much,  but  it's  no  good  leaving  things 
about,  and  there  isn't  a  key  in  your  chest  of 
drawers." 

As  she  spoke  she  held  out  something. 

"They've  been  talking  about  you,"  she  went 
on,  "saying  things  about  you  turning  up  at 
night  without  a  bag  or  anything.  They  can't 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          277 

understand  you  calling  yourself  Miss  and  wear- 
ing a  wedding  ring.  I  told  them  it  would  be 
worse  if  you  called  yourself  Mrs.  and  didn't. 
— You'll  have  to  get  some  things,  won't  you!" 

She  looked  inquisitively  at  Susan,  who  had 
sunk  on  to  the  hard  wooden  chair  in  the  hall, 
unable  to  face  the  stairs.  But  the  mysterious 
stranger  was  hardly  attending  to  what  she  said, 
amounting  as  it  did  to  a  declaration  that  she 
had  found  a  supporter.  Lady  Henrietta's 
unlucky  brooch,  that  she  had  inadvertently 
taken  with  her,  was  just  then  a  precious  thing. 
She  remembered  how  Barnaby  had  laughed  at 
his  mother,  while  she  persisted  in  telling  its 
history,  and  how  she  had  vainly  tried  once  or 
twice  to  throw  it  away,  but  had  given  up. 

"I  know  it's  bewitched,"  she  had  said. 
''It  is  always  bringing  me  small  misfortunes, 
but  I  have  an  uncanny  feeling  that  I  mustn't 
part  with  it.  Besides,  I  can't.  It  has  fallen 
in  the  fire,  and  been  left  in  a  railway  carriage, 
and  had  all  kinds  of  mischances,  but  it  has 
always  come  back  to  me.  It's  attached  to  me 
for  ever  and  ever.  I  don't  know  what  would 
break  the  spell." 

Susan  smiled  a  little  as  she  gazed  at  that  bit 
of  dinted  silver.  Fate  had  made  an  end  of 
the  superstition.  Surely  she  might  keep  it, 
valueless  in  itself,  for  the  sake  of  the  woman 


278          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

she  would  never  see  again.  Its  unluckiness 
did  not  matter.  .  .  . 

"Yes,"  she  said  vaguely.  "I  must  go  and 
get  some  things." 

What  had  the  girl  been  saying!  There  was 
a  kind  of  sympathy  in  her  face. 

"Would  you  come  with  me?"  she  asked, 
yielding  to  her  instinctive  need  of  companion- 
ship. She  could  not  go  out  alone.  .  .  . 

"Bather!"  said  the  girl. 

They  set  out,  an  ill-matched  couple,  flotsam 
that  had  drifted  together,  and  would  as  casu- 
ally drift  apart.  The  Londoner  led  the  way 
confidently,  but  surprised  at  Susan's  first  er- 
rand, the  shipping  office.  It  heightened  her 
interest,  and  she  listened  closely  to  the  stran- 
ger's eager  inquiries.  No,  there  was  no  room 
on  the  next  boat  sailing.  She  could  have  a 
berth  in  the  following  steamer  if  she  liked, 
only  three  days  later.  But  was  there  no  boat 
to-morrow? — Oh,  yes,  but  no  cabin  accommoda- 
tion. The  traveller  did  not  care.  She  would 
go  steerage. 

"You're  in  a  dreadful  hurry  to  sail,  aren't 
you?"  said  the  Londoner,  to  whom  the  trip 
represented  a  tremendous  voyage. 

Yes,  she  was  in  a  hurry. 

"And  you  keep  so  close  to  me;  you  turn 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          279 

your  head  sometimes  as  if  you  thought  we 
were  followed.  What  are  you  afraid  of?" 

Susan  tried  to  smile,  but  the  truth  was  too 
near  her  lips. 

"A  man,"  she  said  nervously,  with  her 
thoughts  on  Rackham. 

The  other  seemed  to  understand.  She  did 
not  ask  any  more  questions,  but  was  kind  and 
useful,  advising  her,  helping  her,  reminding 
her  that  she  must  buy  a  trunk.  Till  they 
turned  the  last  corner,  and  were  within  a  few 
yards  of  the  Babbit  Warren,  as  this  old  inhabit- 
ant called  the  house;  then  she  hung  back  a 
little,  glancing  right  and  left. 

"You're  not  quite  yourself,  are  you?"  she 
said,  consideringly.  Her  eyes  had  the  bright- 
ened gleam  of  one  plunging  alive  into  a  serial 
tale,  one  of  these  in  which  lords  and  ladies  be- 
have strangely  and  the  typewriting  girl  rules 
the  tempest.  As  she  put  her  key  in  the  latch 
she  looked  round  again.  But  there  were  no 
untoward  appearances  dogging  them  in  the  dis- 
tance. There  was  a  disappointing  emptiness 
in  the  street. 

The  gas  was  lit  in  the  hall  at  last,  accentu- 
ating its  gloom.  The  rather  dismal  illumina- 
tion fell  on  a  mahogany  table  under  the  stair 
where  stood  a  row  of  candlesticks,  each  bear- 


280          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

ing  a  different  length  of  candle  and  a  slip  of 
paper. 

Susan's  ally  paused  to  examine  them,  read- 
ing out  the  names  scribbled  on  the  slips.  It 
was  the  custom  for  those  who  were  to  be  out 
late  to  leave  their  candles  in  the  hall,  and  the 
last  one  in,  finding  a  solitary  candlestick  left 
downstairs,  knew  that  it  was  her  business  to 
chain  the  door. 

"Miss  Shanklin,  Miss  Friend,  Miss  Mitch- 
ell— "  read  out  the  inquisitor.  "Mitchell 
is  burnt  down  into  the  socket;  she  reads  in 
bed.  She'll  set  us-  on  fire  one  night. — Miss 
Robinson — that's  me,  but  I've  changed  my 
mind: — Miss  Grahame — " 

Susan  made  no  sign.  Then  she  remembered. 
— That  was  her  name  again. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  said,  "is  that  mine?" 

The  other  girl  nodded  to  herself. 

"Well,"  she  said.  "It's  been  brought  down 
by  mistake.  Better  take  it  up  with  you;  they 
don't  turn  the  gas  off  till  ten." 

She  watched  Susan  go  wearily  up  the  long 
flights,  and  then  ran  swiftly  along  the  passage 
and  called  down  to  the  basement.  The  boy 
who  opened  the  door  to  strangers  and  carried 
coals  answered  her  call  out  of  the  black  gulf 
of  the  kitchen  stair; — his  eyes  glittering,  like 
a  demon  invisible  in  the  dark. 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          281 

"What  are  you  ladies  wanting  now?"  lie 
asked  in  an  injured  voice — "You  can't  have 
'em!" 

"Gerald,"  said  the  girl  mysteriously,  "come 
up.  Higher; — higher!  If  anybody  calls  here 
asking  for  a  lady,  darkish,  with  grey  eyes,  and 
middling  tall, — never  mind  what  name  he 
says — !  Don't  breathe  a  word  of  it,  but 
fetch  me." 

"Doesn't  sound  like  you,"  said  Gerald,  but 
grinned,  diving  backwards  into  his  native 
gloom. 

Miss  Eobinson  turned  from  the  basement 
stairs  and  began  her  long  journey  to  the  top 
of  the  house.  No,  wild  horses  would  not  drag 
her  out  that  night.  Did  they  always  write 
down  a  traveller's  address  at  the  shipping 
office?  Supposing  it  were  her  lot  to  draw  two 
sundered  hearts  together? 

The  Kabbit  Warren  was  a  depressing  house. 
As  the  day  waned  its  dreariness  increased;  it 
grew  fuller  of  tired  women  whose  search  for 
work  had  been  useless,  and  who  came  trudging 
in  with  the  twilight  to  join  the  rest  who  had 
been  listening  all  day  with  straining  ears  for 
the  postman,  while  they  studied  ceaselessly  the 
advertisement  sheets  in  the  daily  paper. 

It  was  chiefly  the  incapable,  the  discouraged, 


282          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

those  who  had  fallen  out  of  the  ranks  through 
ill  health,  or  were  losing  their  hold  because 
they  were  not  any  longer  young,  who  drifted 
into  this  harbour.  They  were  all  in  a  manner 
waifs,  and  they  had  nothing  to  hope  for  but 
that  they  might  die  in  harness. 

Susan  sat  with  her  cheek  on  her  hand,  with- 
drawn a  little,  in  the  dingy  sitting  room.  She 
was  unconscious  of  the  whispering  interest  she 
excited;  she  did  not  hear  the  subdued  discus- 
sion that  raged  around  her.  But  the  atmos- 
phere of  the  house  weighed  on  her,  charged 
as  it  was  with  failure.  It  was  robbing  her  of 
courage. 

How  strange  it  was  to  look  back;  almost  un- 
bearable. How  hard  it  was  to  look  forward. 
She  was  to  sail  to-morrow  .  .  .  she  must 
be  brave.  .  .  . 

The  girl  who  had  struck  up  a  casual  alliance 
with  her  sat  amidst  the  others,  ripping  the 
ragged  binding  off  a  skirt.  Her  sallow  face 
was  less  heavy  than  usual,  her  eyes  alight. 

She  had  glanced  up  quickly  as  Susan  came 
in,  and  had  begun  to  hum  a  tune,  snipping 
fast.  It  had  been  impossible  to  resist  the 
temptation  to  crystallise  wandering  specula- 
tion and  focus  the  general  attention  for  awhile 
on  herself  by  a  few  dark  hints  and  thereupon 
thrilling  silence.  The  rest  fell  with  a  pathetic 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN         283 

eagerness  on  the  brief  distraction  that  light- 
ened their  dreary  lives.  They  had  outlived 
their  own  little  histories;  no  excitement 
touched  any  of  them  but  the  recurrent  terror 
of  wanting  bread. 

All  at  once  Miss  Robinson  laid  down  her 
scissors  and  listened  intently  to  something  she 
heard  without. 

"Is  that  coals  I"  said  one,  huddling  near  the 
fire,  in  a  hushed  voice,  as  who  should  say — 
Might  the  Gods  relent? — But  no  full  scuttle 
bumped  the  panels  as  Gerald  put  in  his  head. 

"Wanted,"  he  said,  and  grinned. 

Miss  Eobinson  gave  one  gasp,  half  in  fright, 
half  triumphant,  and  fled  out  of  the  room, 
shutting  the  door  with  care. 

Then,  for  a  moment,  cowardice  nearly 
quenched  her  long-unslaked  thirst  for  drama. 
Visions  of  herself  as  mediatrix,  restoring  a 
runaway  wife  to  her  frantic  husband,  were  up- 
set by  fearful  misgivings  in  which  she  saw 
herself  figuring,  not  in  the  gilded  realm  of  the 
serial  page,  but  in  lurid  paragraphs  on  the 
other  side  of  the  paper.  Paragraphs  in  which 
someone  heard  pistol-shots.  .  .  . 

In  the  dim  passage  she  clutched  at  Gerald. 

"What  is  he  like?"  she  whispered. 

"A  regular  toff,"  said  Gerald  in  an  awed 
voice.  "Asked  for  a  Miss  Grant.  None  of 


284         THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

that  name  here. — Slight,  dark  lady. — And  then 
I  twigged  that  he  was  your  party.  I've  seen 
his  picture  once  in  the  News  of  the  World;  they 
snapped  him,  held  up  by  the  police  in  his  mo- 
tor. How  did  you  get  to  know  'im,  Miss  Rob- 
inson? He's  a  lord." 

"Oh!"  she  said.  This  was  indeed  a  sensa- 
tion. This  would  last  her  all  her  life! — 

Barnaby  had  had  no  luck  in  Bond  Street. 

He  sat  forward  in  his  hansom,  leaning  out, 
gripping  the  front,  ready  to  dash  it  open.  It 
did  not  matter  to  him  how  many  fools  were 
about,  how  many  frivolous  idiots,  men  and 
women,  stopped  short  in  their  idle  progress 
and  stared  at  him.  Down  Old  Bond  Street, 
along  New  Bond  Street,  right  to  the  end  he 
went,  raking  the  narrow  thoroughfare  with  a 
searching  gaze.  The  shop  signs  mocked  him. 
Milliners,  jewellers,  palmists,  druggists,  pic- 
ture-sellers: a  fantastic  jumble.  She  might  be 
anywhere,  within  two  or  three  yards  of  him, 
and  he  not  know  it.  She  might  have  just  gone 
in  at  that  door  yonder  that  was  closing.  She 
might  be  just  coming  out. 

Half  an  hour  ago.  One  chance  in  a  hundred. 
.  .  .  More  likely  she  was  miles  off,  whizzing 
in  one  of  these  cursed  taxis — 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN         285 

Well,  he  could  hunt  down  Backham.  He 
would  drive  to  that  old  barrack  of  his  in 
Marylebone.  No, — that  was  let  or  shut  up  or 
something.  Where  the  devil  did  he  go  when 
he  was  in  town? 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  before  he  ran 
him  down.  He  had  been  heard  of,  or  seen,  in 
most  of  his  ordinary  haunts.  One  man  had 
come  across  him  in  a  saddler's  shop,  another 
had  passed  him  ten  minutes  ago  in  the  Hay- 
market.  And  at  last  Barnaby  found  him  com- 
ing out  of  his  tailors'.  He  stopped  the  han- 
som. 

"Get  in,"  he  said. 

"Hullo!"  said  Backham,  staring  at  him. 
"What's  wrong  with  you?"  But  he  obeyed 
mechanically,  and  the  hansom  started  off. 
"What  d'you  mean  by  kidnapping  a  fellow 
like  this?  Where  on  earth  are  we  going?" 

"I've  told  him  to  drive  to  my  hotel,"  said 
Barnaby  curtly.  There  was  a  controlled  fury 
in  his  voice. 

"But  why  the  deuce — " 

"I'm  not  going  to  have  a  row  in  a  cab." 

"Whew!"  said  Backham,  twisting  round 
and  regarding  the  grim  outline  of  his  cousin's 
profile,  his  stubbornly  closed  mouth.  Unless 
Barnaby  were  stark  mad  there  was  something 


286          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

serious  in  the  wind,  something  he  could  not 
trust  himself  to  utter  without  losing  his  hold 
on  himself. 

It  was  not  far  to  the  hotel.  Barnaby  got  out 
stiffly  and  Eackham  followed. 

"I  hope  you've  got  a  nurse  on  the  premises," 
he  said, — "or  a  keeper." 

"We'll  go  to  my  room,"  said  Barnaby,  in  the 
same  deadly  quiet  voice.  Up  there  he  closed 
the  door  and  turned  round  on  Eackham  like 
one  who  had  got  to  the  end  of  his  tether. 

"Now!"  he  said.  "Damn  you,  what  have 
you  done  with  my  wife?" 

"What?"  said  Eackham.  He  had  not  ex- 
pected that  charge. 

"You  know  where  she  is,"  said  Barnaby. 
"Don't  lie  to  me.  You  were  with  her  in  Bond 
Street—" 

So  that  was  it. 

"How  should  I  know  if  you  don't?"  said 
Eackham.  "Do  you  mean  she's  gone?" 

His  eagerness  was  unmistakable.  It  was 
worth  a  torrent  of  empty  protestation.  The 
two  men  looked  each  other  straight  in  the  eyes. 

The  likeness  between  them  came  out  then, 
when  they  were  roused.  Something  in  the 
angry  set  of  the  jaw,  something  in  their  ex- 
pression; a  recklessness,  a  hard  blue  stare. 

Barnaby  had  dropped  his  stick.    He  could 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          287 

stand  up  without  its  support.  For  the  time 
he  had  borrowed  strength  of  passion. 

"You  don't  know?"  he  said,  and  took  a  long 
breath. 

"I  don't,"  said  Rackham.  "There's  no  oc- 
casion to  fight  me,  if  that's  what  you  brought 
me  here  for.  I  saw  her ;  I  spoke  to  her ; — but 
I  was  fool  enough  not  to  understand.  I  sup- 
posed she  was  up  in  town  for  the  day,  buying 
rubbish.  I  never  doubted  she  was  going  back. 
— I  thought  you  were  still  on  your  sick-bed  and 
she  was  looking  after  you — " — 

He  checked  himself  abruptly  in  the  burst  of 
angry  candour  that  his  surprise  evoked. 

"You  needn't  look  so  damnably  glad — "  he 
broke  out,  "because  I've  shown  myself  a  sim- 
pleton, not  a  villain.  Look  here,  Barnaby,  I've 
answered  your  question.  I'll  ask  you  to  tell 
me  one  thing.  She's  gone,  and  you  have  lost 
her.  What  do  you  mean  to  do?" 

"Search  London  from  end  to  end,"  said 
Barnaby,  "till  I  find  her." 

"That's  how  we  stand,  is  it?"  said  Back- 
ham.  "You're  not  wise  enough  to  let  her 
go?" 

He  spoke  more  slowly,  recovering  from  his 
astonishment.  There  was  a  light  in  his  eye, 
and  into  his  voice  had  come  a  ring  of  exulta- 
tion. He  had  got  over  his  first  vexation,  his 


288         THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

rage  at  his  own  stupid  failure  to  guess  the  great 
good  news. 

"What  right  have  you  to  say  that?"  cried 
Barnaby. 

"For  the  matter  of  that,"  said  Backham, 
"what  rights  have  you?" 

The  shot  told.  For  a  minute  they  looked 
again  fixedly  at  each  other. 

"You  had  my  answer,"  said  Barnaby,  "when 
I  spoke  of  her  as  my  wife." 

"You  stick  to  that  then?"  said  Backham. 
"Though  she  has  found  it  unsupportable, 
though  she's  gone — you  still  hold  to  that  pre- 
tence? What's  the  good?  You  don't  care  a 
straw  for  the  girl.  Oh,  I've  seen  you  together; 
I  know  the  terms  you  were  on. — It's  sheer  ob- 
stinacy makes  you  play  the  dog-in-the-man- 
ger— " 

"Take  care,"  said  Barnaby,  breathing  hard. 

"Let's  drop  that  humbug,"  said  Backham. 
"I'm  no  gossip. — But  I've  had  an  inkling  from 
the  first.  I've  guessed  all  along  that  it  was 
a  plan  of  your  mother's. — Infernally  incon- 
venient of  you  to  turn  up  and  spoil  it — !  But 
I  held  my  tongue.  Nobody  else  had  any  idea 
of  how  the  land  lay  but  Julia. — There's  a  dev- 
ilish instinct  sometimes  in  a  jealous  woman — " 

He  laughed  shortly.  Something  in  Bar- 
naby's  look  amused  him. 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN         289 

"What?  She's  been  reproaching  you,  has 
she,  after  all?"  he  said.  "Well,  I  did  you  one 
service  there.  If  I  hadn't  kept  her  quiet,  she'd 
have  shrieked  it  all  out  on  the  house-tops  on 
the  night  of  the  Melton  Ball.  You  owe  me 
something  for  that,  Barnaby.  There  'ud  al- 
ways have  been  a  few  who  wouldn't  have  put 
her  down  as  a  raving  lunatic.  Mind,  I  didn't 
muzzle  her  for  your  sake — I  did  that  for 
Susan.  I  wasn't  going  to  stand  by  and  see 
that  woman  hounding  'em  on — ! ' ' 

"Have  you  done!"  said  Barnaby.  He  had 
got  back  some  measure  of  self-control. 

"I'm  done  if  you  are  reasonable,"  said  Rack- 
ham.  "Why  not  own  up  and  tell  me  what  you 
can,  and  let  me  look  for  her.  I  swear  I'll  find 
her — but  not  for  you." 

Barnaby  took  one  step  towards  him,  and  he 
stood  back  quickly,  smiling  at  his  own  involun- 
tary precaution.  He  could  afford  to  smile,  to 
stave  off  a  scuffle  that  would  summon  all  the 
rabble  in  the  hotel. 

"Steady!"  he  said.  "Don't  try  to  kill  me. 
It  would  be  a  waste  of  time  for  both  of  us. 
I'm  not  afraid  of  you,  Barnaby,  but  I  have 
something  else  to  do, — now, — than  to  stop 
rowing  up  here  with  you.  I'd  better  warn 
you — " 

Barnaby  was  struggling  to  hold  himself  in. 


290          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

Susan  had  still  to  be  found,  and  she  would 
want  his  protection.  Eackham  was  right  there, 
damn  him;  he  must  not  lose  his  head. 

"And  I  warn  you,"  he  said.  "I'll  find  my 
wife  without  your  help.  Do  you  hear  what  I 
say? — my  wife,  Eackham.  I  don't  care  what 
story  you  have  got  hold  of.  Understand  that. 
She  belongs  to  me." 

"And  yet  she's  gone,"  said  Eackham. 

Somebody  was  knocking  at  the  door,  but  so 
discreetly  that  neither  of  the  two  men  heard. 
Eackham,  turning  to  go,  had  halted  to  fling 
back  his  taunting  word.  And  the  other  man 
had  no  answer.  His  own  storming  haste  had 
undone  him. 

"You  can't  get  over  that,  can  you?"  said 
Eackham.  "It  knocks  the  bottom  out  of  your 
doggedness.  If  she  doesn't  choose  to  carry  it 
on  you  can  do  nothing." 

"I  can  take  care  of  her,"  said  Barnaby. 
His  voice  sounded  hoarse. 

"No,  you  can't,"  said  Eackham,  with  a  sud- 
den fierceness  that  matched  his  own.  "That 
will  be  my  business." 

"Yours?"  said  Barnaby,  and  his  look  was 
dangerous.  He  advanced  on  the  other  man 
with  a  clenching  hand. 

"Because,"    said   Eackham,    "if   she's   not 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          291 

your  wife: — and  she's  not;  she's  nothing  to 
you — I  shall  make  her  mine." 

In  the  short  silence  that  fell  between  them 
the  knocking  became  insistent. 

"Better  let  them  in,"  said  Rackham,  "I'm 
going." 

Barnaby  pulled  himself  together  and  turned 
the  key.  His  locking  the  door  had  been  an 
instinctive  action.  And  Rackham  passed  out, 
ignoring  the  insignificant  person  waiting  on 
the  threshold,  who  met  Barnaby 's  look  of  blank 
interrogation  with  an  apologetic  reminder  of 
his  own  orders.  He  had  said  if  a  message 
came  it  was  to  be  brought  up  at  once.  And 
a  message  it  was ; — from  the  shipping  office. 

Rackham  swung  out  of  the  place  like  a  con- 
queror. The  knowledge  that  Susan  had  run 
away  was  to  him  the  knowledge  that  he  had 
won. 

He  never  doubted  that  he  would  find  her, 
and  inspiration  helped  him,  as  it  will  the  man 
whose  blood  runs  quicker  under  the  stimulus 
of  his  belief  in  his  luck.  What  was  the  shop 
she  had  flown  into  to  escape  him  and  Kilgour, 
and  the  embarrassment  of  their  ignorant  ques- 
tions? He  had  stayed  long  enough  outside  to 
know  it  again,  waiting  till  he  had  no  excuse  for 


292          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

loitering  any  longer.  She  must  have  made 
purchases.  He  went  straight  there. 

How  simple  it  was,  with  luck  on  his  side,  to 
call  in  and  say  that  a  lady  who  had  been  in  that 
morning  was  afraid  she  had  forgotten  to  leave 
her  name  and  address.  .  .  .  This  was  no 
big  emporium,  but  a  little  exclusive  shop  where 
it  was  possible  to  describe  a  customer's  ap- 
pearance with  a  chance  of  finding  it  remem- 
bered by  saleswomen  who  recognised  his  stand- 
ing and  were  sympathetically  amused.  In  the 
hat-shop  they  directed  him  upstairs,  and  there 
he  found  an  equal  appreciation  of  his  attitude 
of  comical  despair,  as  he  tried  helplessly  to 
run  through  a  list  of  feminine  furbelows  that 
the  careless  lady  was  supposed  to  have  or- 
dered to  be  sent  home.  How  should  a  man 
succeed? — Smiling  they  reassured  him.  They 
recollected  the  lady  perfectly  from  his  descrip- 
tion, and  she  had  made  no  mistake  in  that  es- 
tablishment; the  parcel  was  already  packed 
and  waiting  to  be  despatched.  To  satisfy  him 
an  assistant  was  bidden  to  read  out  the  ad- 
dress on  the  label,  and  as  she  glanced  up  at 
him,  expecting  him  to  verify  it,  Backhand 
checked  himself  just  in  time.  For  the  name 
she  slurred  over  was  strange  to  him. 

Why,  he  had  thought  of  that, — since  natu- 
rally the  runaway  was  no  longer  masquer- 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          293 

ading  as  his  cousin's  wife; — and  yet  he  had 
been  about  to  deny  that  it  was  she.  What  had 
it  sounded  like?  Grant,  or  Grand? — And  was 
it  indeed  Susan,  or  a  stranger?  He  had  no 
means  of  knowing;  the  only  thing  possible  was 
to  go  blindly  forward,  trusting  in  his  luck  and 
fixing  that  address  in  his  head. 

"Yes,  yes,  that's  all  right,"  he  acknowl- 
edged, and  laughed  good-naturedly  at  the  ap- 
parent futility  of  his  mission  as  he  sauntered 
out  of  the  shop. 


It  was  Miss  Eobinson's  mysterious  signal 
that  cleared  the  room.  One  by  one,  like  startled 
shadows,  its  denizens  flitted  thence,  and  left 
Eackham  alone  with  Susan. 

They  hung  over  the  stairs,  buzzing  like  bees 
in  the  semi-darkness,  thrilled  by  an  interest 
that  was  vaguely  heightened  by  alarm.  At  in- 
tervals they  hushed  each  other  into  silence,  lis- 
tening with  bated  breath  lest  anything  might 
transpire,  and  watching  with  a  kind  of  fascina- 
tion the  crack  of  light  that  issued  from  the 
door  of  the  sitting  room.  Only  Miss  Robinson 
herself  went  whispering,  whispering  on. 

"Poor  little  girl!"  said  Eackham. 

There  was  triumph  and  pity  and  a  threaten- 
ing kindness  in  his  voice.  His  reckless  person- 


294         THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

ality  seemed  to  fill  the  room  that  had  been  so 
suddenly  deserted. 

She  had  risen  to  her  feet  with  a  gasp  at  his 
entrance.  A  wave  of  panic  swept  over  her 
head  and  left  her  slightly  trembling; — because 
she  had  had  no  warning. 

"How  did  you  come  here?"  she  said. 

"Oh,"  he  said,  smiling  down  upon  her.  "I 
prevailed  on  a  drab  young  woman  who  seems 
to  have  constituted  herself  your  guardian  to 
bring  me  in.  I  wasn't  going  to  risk  your  giv- 
ing me  the  slip  as  you  did  this  morning.  You 
wouldn't  have  seen  me  if  I'd  sent  in  a  cere- 
monious message." 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  would  not." 

"I  knew  that,"  said  Eackham.  "The  same 
pride  that  kept  you  from  telling  me  the  truth 
would  have  hidden  you  from  me.  You'd  have 
had  me  turned  from  the  door. — But  the  drab 
romancer  was  a  great  ally,  though  I've  had  to 
agree  with  most  of  her  wild  surmises. — I'll 
make  you  forgive  me  later." 

He  laughed  under  his  breath. 

"She  asked  me,"  he  said,  "if  I  was  your 
husband." 

"You — you — !  Did  you  let  her  think — " 
cried  Susan  in  a  choking  voice,  fighting  against 
a  strange  sense  of  the  inevitable  that  his  look 
inspired. 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN         '295 

"Oh,  she  had  been  thinking  hard,"  he  said. 
"A  runaway  stranger,  calling  herself  Miss — 
Grahame,  was  it? — I  got  it  wrong — and  wear- 
ing a  wedding  ring.  What  more  likely — I  I 
had  the  part  thrust  on  me  directly  I  showed 
my  face. ' ' 

He  dropped  the  half -jesting  air  that  had 
masked  his  excitement,  and  came  nearer.  She 
shivered  a  little  at  his  approach. 

"Daren't  you  trust  me,  Susan?"  he  said. 
"I'm  not  a  Pharisee. — Why,  I  guessed  it 
from  the  beginning.  Don't  you  remember  how 
I  asked  you  to  let  me  help  you  if  you  wanted 
a  friend? — And  all  the  while  I  was  watching. 
Do  you  think  I  can't  guess  how  Barnaby  drove 
his  bargain,  careless  of  you,  trading  on  your 
helplessness  in  the  shock  of  his  return?  What 
did  he  care  that  it  was  hard  on  you,  so  long  as 
it  suited  his  selfish  purpose?" 

"He  was  good  to  me,"  she  said.  It  was  no 
use  denying  anything  any  more. 

"Are  you  grateful  to  him — still?"  said 
Eackham. 

She  turned  away  her  face. 

Something  in  her  attitude  kindled  in  him 
that  instinct  of  protection  that  had  from  the 
first  struggled  in  his  soul  with  admiration. 
Had  he  not  felt  a  consuming  rage  that  it  had 
not  been  his  to  battle  for  her,  to  turn  round 


296          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

on  Barnaby  and  his  world,  all  pointing  the 
finger  of  scorn  at  her  for  a  cheat? — He  would 
have  liked  them  to  do  their  worst,  would  have 
liked  to  defy  them.  .  .  .  Well,  that  oc- 
casion was  his  at  last. 

Barnaby  had  nearly  fooled  him.  The  ex- 
traordinary course  he  had  taken  had  at  first 
made  Eackham  curse  himself  for  an  imagina- 
tive ass.  But  he  had  been  right.  His  time 
had  come.  .  .  .  And  Barnaby  was  defeated. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "that's  ended.  I'll  take 
care  of  you  now,  I'll  take  you  out  of  this. 
Look  at  me!  There's  nothing  between  us  now, 
no  fictitious  barrier,  no  mistaken  idea  of  loy- 
alty to  a  man  who  took  advantage  of  your 
false  step  to  make  you  play  his  own  foolish 
game.  You  made  a  gallant  show.  It  almost 
deceived  me,  once  or  twice,  almost  made  me 
believe  you  liked  him.  .  .  .  Never  mind 
that.  Like  a  brave  girl  you've  freed  yourself 
from  that  intolerable  position.  And  I'm  here, 
Susan,  where  I  always  was,  at  your  feet." 

She  lifted  her  head;  a  little,  sad,  desperate 
face  upturned. 

"Why  must  you  insult  me?"  she  said.  "Is 
it  because  I  am  all  alone?" 

"I'm  asking  you  to  marry  me,"  said  Eaek- 
ham. 

She  stared  at  him  for  a  minute.    His  pur- 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN         297 

suit  of  her  was  not  all  selfish:  there  was  an 
impatient  fondness  in  his  reckless  face. 

"I — ?"  she  said  faintly.  "A  woman  of 
whom  you  know  nothing  but  that  she  came 
among  you  as  an  impostor?  You  cannot  mean 
what  you  say,  Lord  Backham." 

He  broke  in  on  her  protestation  roughly. 

"Do  you  think  I  mind  tattle?"  he  said. 
"Let  their  tongues  wag.  We'll  hold  up  our 
heads  and  flout  'em.  I'll  leave  it  to  Barnaby 
to  find  a  way  out  of  his  muddle. — Lord,  how 
it  will  puzzle  them, — how  they'll  jabber  when 
they  see  our  marriage  advertised  in  the  Morn- 
ing Post — /" 

He  was  taking  her  assent  for  granted,  arro- 
gant in  the  heat  of  his  headlong  moment. 
Perhaps  it  did  not  strike  him  as  possible  that 
she  would  refuse.  What  woman  in  her  plight 
would  not  lean  gladly  on  the  rescuer  who  came 
to  offer  her  his  kingdom?  Perhaps  he  was 
blinded  by  his  confidence  in  his  luck. 

"I — can't  marry  you!"  she  said. 

Eackham  did  not  fall  back.  He  laughed  in- 
dulgently. Was  she  troubled  because  of  the 
world's  opinion? 

"Dear,  silly  child,"  he  said.  "Don't  be 
frightened.  I'll  make  them  treat  you  properly. 
I'll  make  them  swallow  their  amazement;  and 
they  shall  be  kind  to  you." 


298          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

Yes,  this  man  loved  her.  That  was  why  she 
was  afraid  of  him.  She  was  not  used  to  being 
loved  like  that.  She  had  never  learned  to  see 
in  it  help,  instead  of  danger.  .  .  . 

"I  can't  marry  you,"  she  repeated,  but  her 
breath  came  fast. 

* '  Oh,  but  you  must ! "  he  said.  ' '  Fate  is  on 
my  side.  What  kind  of  a  struggle  can  you 
make  against  me  all  by  yourself?  I've  found 
you,  Susan,  and  I'll  never  let  you  go.  .  .  . 
There's  nothing  too  outrageous  for  me  to  un- 
dertake, and  nothing  on  earth  to  stop  me. — 
Your  hands  are  trembling." 

He  bent  to  seize  them  in  his,  brushing  aside 
her  mute  defiance  with  his  violent  tenderness, 
as  determined  as  Fate  itself.  Just  for  a  min- 
ute she  felt  very  tired  in  spirit,  very  weak  to 
resist  him.  It  was  so  strange,  although  it  was 
terrible,  to  be  loved.  Why  should  any  man 
care  so  deeply  as  to  stand  between  her  and 
the  emptiness  of  the  world?  Might  she  not, 
if  she  submitted,  find  the  strange  worship 
sweet? 

She  did  not  know  she  was  wavering  until  she 
understood  his  smile,  and  with  that  her  heart 
was  smitten  by  a  fugitive  likeness,  a  trick  of 
manner,  reminding  her  of  another  man.  Use- 
lessly, poignantly,  memory  stabbed  her.  She 
flung  out  these  trembling  hands. 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN         299 

"No!"  she  panted.  The  thought  of  it  was 
unbearable.  "I  can't — I  can't!" 

He  was  taken  aback  by  the  vehemence  of  her 
cry.  For  a  moment  he  did  not  speak,  looking 
at  her  queerly.  His  laugh  was  angry. 

"I've  a  great  mind  to  bundle  you  into  a 
cab  and  carry  you  off,"  he  said.  "Oh,  they'd 
let  me! — I've  only  to  tell  these  people  that  you 
are  my  wife  and  a  little  mad.  My  tale  would 
sound  more  probable  than  yours." 

She  was  not  sure  that  he  was  not  in  earnest. 
Panic-stricken  she  shook  off  his  hold  on  her 
arm,  meaning  to  pass  him  and  reach  the  door. 
Why? — To  make  a  futile  bid  for  sympathy  in 
this  house  of  strangers? — 

Who  was  it  that  had  turned  the  handle  and 
was  coming  in  ?  Her  gaze  was  unbelieving ;  she 
could  neither  breathe  nor  stir  till  the  suffo- 
cating leap  of  her  heart  assured  her  that  it  was 
true.  For  it  was  Barnaby  himself  who  was 
standing  in  the  doorway,  just  as  he  had  stood 
on  that  night  when  she  had  seen  him  first* 
Only  the  look  in  his  eyes  was  changed. 

The  same  faintness  overcame  her  that  had 
stricken  her  down  that  night.  She  did  not 
know  whose  arms  had  caught  her  as  she  was 
falling  .  .  .  falling.  .  .  .  But  she  was 
afraid  of  nothing,  though  all  was  darkness. 

"Your  race,  Barnaby,"  said  Eackham. 


CHAPTER  XV 

"I  KNEW  we  should  get  you  back,"  said  Lady 
Henrietta. 

That  had  been  her  first  word  last  night,  and 
she  repeated  it  with  the  emphasis  of  a  proph- 
etess justified.  Still  her  clasp  of  the  truant 
had  been  almost  fierce. 

The  journey  to  London  had  done  her  no 
harm.  Bather  had  all  this  excitement  given 
her  a  fillip.  There  was  a  triumphant  pink  in 
her  cheek,  and  amusement  twinkled  in  the  fine 
lines  surrounding  the  corners  of  her  eyes. 
Whilst  Barnaby  had  been  searching  she  had 
been  busy,  dealing  with  an  imposing  but 
worldly  personage  in  gaiters,  who  had  been 
an  old  admirer  of  hers  and  was  her  sworn  ally. 
The  situation  charmed  her ;  it  was  like  a  thrill- 
ing but  perfectly  righteous  bit  of  intrigue. 
Quizzically,  delightedly,  she  was  regarding 
Susan. 

"Yes,"  she  maintained.  "I  pinned  my  faith 
to  that  battered  old  brooch  of  mine.  It's  un- 
lucky to  wear,  but  still — when  I  remembered 
that  it  was  doomed  to  come  back  to  me  I  was 
tranquil.  I  knew  it  would." 

300 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN          301 

She  turned  from  one  to  the  other,  challeng- 
ing them  to  mock  at  her  superstition ;  and  then 
she  laughed. 

"My  dear!"  she  said.  "I'll  never  forget 
his  face  when  I  was  raging  at  him. — I  blamed 
him,  you  may  'be  sure.  Or  his  voice  when 
he  called  to  me — l  She  has  written ! '  I  could 
get  no  more  out  of  him  till  I  lost  my  patience 
and  cried — 'Then  for  Heaven's  sake  read  the 
letter  and  tell  me  what  she  says ! '  And  when 
he  said — 'She  says  she  has  found  out  that  my 
marriage  was  illegal'  I  could  only  exclaim — 
*  Thank  goodness!'  " 

She  laughed  again  at  her  picture  of  his 
amazement. 

"I  shocked  him  awfully,"  she  said.  "But 
I  was  transported.  It  had  solved  a  riddle. 
.  .  .  'So  that  was  the  mysterious  American 
business,'  I  said,  'that  is  what  was  the  matter! 
And  she  has  rushed  off  and  set  you  free  and 
all  the  rest  of  it,  you  undeserving  laggard !  If 
that's  all  it  can  soon  be  mended.' — And  then 
he  woke  up  from  his  stupefaction.  But  it  was 
I  who  thought  of  the  Bishop.  It  was  I  who 
suggested  a  special  licence.  I  am  the  head  con- 
spirator, Susan, — and  I'll  go  and  put  on  my 
things." 

She  went,  glancing  back  to  them  as  she 
reached  the  door. 


302         THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

" Don't  let  her  out  of  your  sight,  Barnaby," 
she  said  warningly,  and  left  them  together. 

The  girl  stayed  where  she  was,  quite  still; 
gazing  down  from  the  dizzy  height  of  the  win- 
dow on  the  restless  world  in  the  streets  below. 
Barnaby  was  limping  across  to  her  side.  She 
felt  his  touch  on  her  shoulder. 

''There's  the  church  down  there,"  he  said. 
"Like  an  island  in  a  whirlpool,  isn't  it?  But 
all  the  roar  and  the  rush  dies  down  like  the 
noise  in  a  dream  when  you  get  inside.  It's 
wonderfully  dim  and  dark  in  there,  and  they're 
dusting  the  pews  for  us, — and  there  are  a  few 
lilies  on  the  altar.  And  we'll  just  walk  into  it 
hand  in  hand." 

Her  breath  came  hurriedly,  like  a  sob. 

"Are  you — sure?"  she  said. 

"Ah,"  he  reminded  her,  "I've  never  made 
love  to  you,  have  I,  Susan?" 

She  could  not  answer  him,  knowing  him  so 
close ;  and  she  dared  not  look  up  at  him.  There 
was  so  much  to  remember,  and  she  had  begun 
to  guess  how  dangerous  it  had  been.  .  .  . 
He  laughed,  and  his  hand  leaned  heavier  on 
her  shoulder. 

"I've  been  hopping  all  over  London  like  a 
mad  cripple,"  he  said,  "and  at  last  I've  got 
you.  I  must  hold  on  to  you,  or  you'll  manage 
to  disappear.  Why  did  you  run  away  when 


THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN         303 

you  thought  I  couldn't  follow?  It  wasn't  fair. 
Oh,  my  darling,  couldn't  you  understand?" 

His  voice  was  not  steady  now;  there  was 
reproach  in  its  passionate  undertone. 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  said,  and  laid  her  cheek 
against  his  sleeve.  This  thing  that  was  still 
too  wonderful  was  true. 

"Why,"  said  Barnaby.  "It  was  only  you 
from  the  first, — that  first  night  when  the  sight 
of  you  staggered  me.  I  didn't  know  why,  but 
I  did  know  that  at  any  cost,  at  any  risk,  I 
couldn't  let  you  go.  I  thought  I  was  strong 
enough,  man  enough,  to  keep  you  safe  in  my 
house: — and  when  I  began  to  find  out  what  a 
hard  thing  I  had  undertaken,  when  I  had  to 
fight  back  the  mad  desire  to  make  the  farce 
we  played  at  real, — you  believed  that  I  had 
betrayed  you  to  another  woman.  .  .  .  I've 
got  your  letter,  your  dear  scrap  of  a  piteous 
letter,  letting  me  know  that  she  and  I  had  no 
barrier  between  us.  ...  And  that  was  to 
be  the  last  I  heard  of  you,  was  it,  Susan?" 

The  reproach  in  his  question  was  lost  in  its 
bantering  tenderness. 

"Wait,"  he  said,  "till  I  have  you  safe,  and 
I'll  teach  you.  .  .  .  And  then,  perhaps, 
we'll  dare  to  look  back  on  it  all  and  laugh, — a 
long  time  afterwards ;  just  you  and  I,  by  our- 
selves." 


304          THE  WAY  OF  A  WOMAN 

Lady  Henrietta  was  back  already.  She  had 
been  discreet,  had  asked  for  no  fuller  explana- 
tion than  the  one  she  had  so  promptly  fur- 
nished herself.  It  was  all  she  was  to  know; 
but  she  was  too  wise  to  pry.  At  the  back  of 
her  mind  there  was  nothing  but  an  absolute 
satisfaction,  as  of  a  warrior  who  had  won  her 
battle.  If  her  eyes,  shrewd  and  understanding, 
were  dimmed  a  little  as  she  considered  them, 
she  flung  off  her  emotion  quickly  and  smiled 
again. 

"How  funny  it  is,"  she  said.  "You  have  no 
idea  how  I  am  enjoying  myself,  you  children. 
Put  her  furs  on,  Barnaby,  button  her  up  to  the 
chin.  I  promised  the  Bishop  we  wouldn't  be 
late.  Secret  marriages  never  are." 

Then,  hurrying  him,  she  was  moved  to  plague 
him  with  an  irrepressible  spark  of  mischief. 

"Incomprehensible  pair,"  she  said.  "I  wish 
I  had  been  at  your  first  wedding.  It  must  have 
been  frightfully  romantic." 

Barnaby  put  away  his  watch.  An  uncon- 
querable flicker  lit  up  his  eyes. 

"Romantic's  the  word,"  he  said. — "Let's  go 
and  get  married,  Susan." 

THE  END 


